


Leaving the Temple

by eirtae



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Character Cameos - Freeform, Female-Centric, Gen, Lesbians in Space, Original Character-centric, PTSD, Recovery, The Jedi Order, lots of clones starting in chapter 8, pre order 66, referenced rape/past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirtae/pseuds/eirtae
Summary: Jedi returned! After an assignment goes horrifically awry, Senior Padawan Chel Nerala is taken as a slave in a pleasure house. Her master engages in a daring rescue, and Chel is freed - at the cost of her master’s life. Now home at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, she attempts to recover under the shadow of the continuing Clone Wars...
Comments: 23
Kudos: 26





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Updates on Sundays.
> 
> The timeline is VERY tight, and works on the assumption that the Clone Wars ended near the end of 19 BBY, that Ahsoka left near the start of 19 BBY, and that Anakin was a council member for about four to six months, as per the likely minimum length of time we see of Padme’s pregnancy in RotS based on how much she’s showing and what’s implied at the start of the movie. I'm desperately trying to keep this mostly canon compliant! 
> 
> All thanks to my wife and beta, polkera.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: non-graphic discussion of sexual assault, rape, trafficking, and sexual slavery. Also (brief) victim blaming, (extensive) alcoholism, and one instance of (intense) suicidal ideation that will be warned for in the chapter’s a/n.

29 BBY

The girl wasn’t sure how the holorecorder worked, and so the holo started with the recorder aimed at the bottom of her chin. 

For the first minute or so the holo consisted exclusively of the girl frowning as a woman out of view patiently explained how the most basic settings worked. The woman off screen sounded like she was fighting not to laugh with every breath, but the girl didn’t notice, unashamedly asking the same questions several times over.

“There, just set it - just set it - _honestly_ -” the woman broke down laughing, and the girl glared, successfully managing to hold the recorder towards her face.

“Jedi aren’t supposed to make fun of people,” she firmly informed the woman out of view. Half the girl’s black hair was tied up in twin tails that exaggerated the shake of her head, a red ribbon threaded through the braid behind her ear.

The holo cut to the sound of more laughter and changed to a view that indicated that the recorder had been placed on something solid and switched on by someone other than the girl.

“So,” said the girl, looking earnestly into the recorder and fiddling with the red ribbon braid, “Master Dain says that they really meant it at the Temple when they said that Jedi are supposed to be nice to people even when they aren’t nice back, which doesn’t really make any sense but -”

The woman out of view pointedly cleared her throat, and the girl abruptly changed topics.

“- and you won’t tell anybody that you’re lonely, but I'm a _Zeltron_ , so I know you’re _definitely lonely_ , so I thought I’d send you a holo…”

* * *

26 BBY

At fourteen the girl had mostly learned the _idea_ of how the recorder worked, though in this case she struggled with the focus.

“Look - blast it - I can't get it to - _there_ ,” the holo came properly into focus, the view of a cove with several somethings flying back and forth across the water, raising great white sprays behind them. “Water skimmers that you stand on,” she leaned into the recorder’s view, her damp hair sticking in long strands to her red face, and although the colours were washed out, it was easy to imagine that the water was the same bright blue as her eyes. “They go so fast, you’d _love them_ -”

She excitedly tried to explain how they worked, but her grasp of the technicals was so poor it made absolutely no sense.

“Anyway,” she finished with some embarrassment when she realized she was getting nowhere. “I’ll ah, I’ll try to find someone else to explain it on the holo for you. Here,” she reached for something behind, refocusing and zooming in on the skimmers, their sails clear, flashing purple in the sun. “They’re going to teach me how, I’ve got this set up so you can watch me get dunked.”

Then she stood and sprinted down the beach to the water, spraying sand on the lens as it briefly focused on her gangly, adolescent shins. 

* * *

22 BBY

At seventeen she was no longer awkwardly proportioned, but lean, growing swiftly into adult strength. Her black hair was neatly braided so that it rested on her left shoulder, even the braided length almost to her waist, the red ribbon in her Padawan braid visible amongst the strands.

“This,” she said proudly, pointing at the human man to her left, “is Oh-Six -”

“Like the time,” he piped up.

“- and that’s Fierfek,” she crossed one arm over the other, so she could point at the identical man on her right.

“Language!” came Dain’s exasperated voice from off screen.

The view turned to look at her master, the light brown Zabrak frowning at the group of them.

“Sorry sir!” called whoever was holding the recorder - his voice was the same as Oh-Six’s. “That’s his name! Can’t change it now!”

“I suppose it’s a long sight better than a number,” growled Dain, turning to stalk to the other side of the AT-TE.

The recorder turned back to Oh-Six, Fierfek, and the girl, the two clones looking briefly concerned until she let out her stifled snicker.

“And that’s, ah, that’s Trigger,” she finished, pointing slightly to the right of the recorder. “He's going to show me how to shoot with dual blasters.”

“Say Commander, why do I have to hold this thing?” asked Trigger.

“Oh! Sorry, I was so bad at directing the hover that we disabled it,” she apologized, jumping across the space to the recorder and removing it from his hands. “I just had to be in the first bit, we’ll get you in next, you can show off the Y-Wings, I know you love fighters just like he does -”

* * *

21 BBY

“Trigger is dead,” said the young woman into the holorecorder. Her hair was messily tied back into a bun, and she looked harried. A year and a half had worn on her more than either of them had expected. “And Fierfek. Oh-Six is the only one who’s…” she sighed, shaking her head. “Just math, I suppose.”

She sat back, still in view, although most of what the holo had recorded was the slow turn of Coruscant below the ship’s window, all beautiful orange lights in circles and lines over its surface. Her framing had improved over the years, slightly making up for her continued inability to consistently use anything other than the button for on and off.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said slowly after a pause, “whether or not they’re even _meant_ to live to the end. I mean, what happens when the war is over? Do they just get… get warehoused? Or put to work? Because that sounds like…” 

She trailed off, looking at her fingers, fiddling with her Padawan braid.

“For a long time I thought Master Dain didn’t like them, she’s always been so…” she sighed. “Mostly she acts like the war isn’t ever going to end, and having them around makes her worse. I’m glad we’ve never actually been assigned to a battalion, even if it means it takes a while for me to find these things out.” 

She tried to smile as she changed topics. 

“Anyway, we’re doing more undercover work, so I’m sending you this to make sure you don’t get all anxious if I don’t send anything for a while. Take care, yeah?”

* * *

19 BBY

The room she was in was small and dirty, the recorder set on the edge of a bed or a chair, aimed down at where she sat on the floor with her back and head resting against the wall. One blaster was out of sight, the other within the recorder’s view but out of her reach, her saber on the floor along her side. 

Her hair was growing out from where she'd chopped it off below her jaw after she'd been knighted. It was now approaching the tops of her shoulders, the length still uneven and obviously unwashed. She seemed not quite capable of looking directly at the camera, which made the exhaustion worse, the light gone out of her salt-rimmed eyes.

She tried to start speaking, and stopped. Tried again, and stopped. She swallowed, glanced at the recorder - she looked _haunted_ \- and pulled from a bottle she’d been holding in her hands just out of sight.

“So… they’re all…” she trailed off and cleared her throat. “So I’m sure you’ve heard,” she tried instead. “I’m… obviously… I wasn’t with… I’d already...”

Another pause, another sip, another glance at the recorder.

“I’ll tell you when I… when I see you,” she took a breath. “I just wanted you to know that I’m still alive.”


	2. Coruscant at Night

The Jedi Temple was so _bright_. 

Gold light through tall windows, pillars breaking the sunset, framing the glittering lights of Coruscant at night. The interior halls without windows were filled with white artificial lamps, communication rooms were cast in the stabbing pinprick of blue holos, rooms deep within the Temple that should have been dim and cool were filled with the yellow-orange of false suns.

Only meditation rooms were poorly lit, and even those had a soft glow in the corners, warmth spread for quiet contemplation. These rooms were claustrophobic even when they were large, crowding in on her thoughts in ways that nowhere else in the Temple did.

Chel tried to travel only at night, and even then she had a tendency to squint.

It was also loud. Intolerably so, times in the early morning described as ‘quiet’ that were still flooded with the presence of all of the people in the Temple, waking or sleeping. There was no escaping them, the sound of voices and steps outside the room she’d temporarily been given horrifically inconsistent. They kept her full of tense anticipation that had nothing to do with who they were or where she was, the laughter of men jolting her awake in fear and the steps of women and children startling in their unfamiliar softly-treading pace.

The Temple's noise was always backed by the hum of the planet, layer upon layer of voices and speeders and music.

Thus, once Chel was cleared to live in her own quarters, the first thing she did was turn off the lights, draw the curtains, and lie on the floor to stare at the ceiling in a thoughtless daze. The first week she spent there she cried every night, not because of what had happened or what was happening, but for the sheer relief that was being alone.

If she could have, she would have stayed there indefinitely.

But being given some measure of privacy came with the condition that she follow the schedules set for her on her own, and for that reason she said yes to as many things they asked of her as possible, and never said no, opting instead for silence. She knew there wouldn’t be any punishment for saying the word, that it really _meant_ something here, that there was no vicious game associated with it in this place. 

That didn’t make the nausea related to trying to spit the word out go away.

There was an endless list of things about her body to check, the set of her ribs, the depth of her breath, the effects on her Zeltron biology, things she didn’t even know could be broken. Every part of the process hurt - even the highest safe dose of sedatives and the related painkillers was no longer effective. They had tried to use bacta tanks twice, and both times Chel had _panicked_ , the combination of her drug resistance and newfound claustrophobia too intense to be conquered.

Afterward Chel was sent along to a mind healer, who would try to get her to make some kind of eye contact and talk at her as though she could focus on anything at all after being so invasively poked and prodded. However necessary it was, it still left her feeling dirty and violated instead of numb. 

Most of her time otherwise was free, outside of the regular checks by one of the mind healers. As she recovered enough to think it somewhat through, it was difficult not to resent being monitored, and so she left her quarters strategically, timing it for when they would be checking in. They always found her anyway, and she didn’t begrudge them that - it was their job - but she could, and did, find ways to keep them from knowing exactly how much time she spent completely alone doing nothing in the dark.

Still, this only worked with the mind healers. The woman assigned to bring Chel back to physical health could tell exactly how much time Chel spent _not moving_.

“I asked to take care of you, you know,” the woman said one day, sitting herself down next to Chel.

Chel didn’t look at her, eyes as downcast as ever, the warm red of her face half hidden behind strands of long dark hair.

“Because I remember what you were like as a youngling. Couldn’t ever stop moving. Jittery, almost,” she said, sounding fond. 

This wasn’t a thing Chel was interested in hearing, though at least, unlike the mind healers, the woman hadn’t yet talked about Master Dain.

“Which means I’ve got a bit of knowledge the mind healers don’t,” continued the woman. “You’ll feel more like yourself once you can feel yourself at all. You won’t necessarily feel better, mind, but with some people the mental has to follow the physical.”

At this, Chel glanced up, and didn’t immediately look back down.

“You’re one of those people, and we both know the beating your physical has taken recently. So,” said the woman, once again businesslike, “keep up with these, would you?” she handed Chel the datapad of exercises she’d been trying to get Chel to pay attention to for a week.

Every night from then on Chel would find a different empty place in the Temple - a dojo so outdated it had been temporarily abandoned, the need for renovations was so dire; a courtyard in the bowels of the Temple that felt as though it was out of doors, the ceiling was so high; a back room hardly large enough for the meetings that theoretically took place there, much less what she needed it for - and dutifully worked through every instruction.

It was a full month before Chel realized that the drugs had left a haze over the world even when she thought she was fully aware, that everything had been duller than it should be, that the sensation of unreality she’d had in the Temple since returning hadn’t just been the jarring change in location and treatment.

The realization came in the early morning of the day when the real, true, repressive and violent nature of Coruscant finally broke through.

As a child she hadn’t had a sense of it except as moments of foreboding outside the Temple walls; as a teen she’d known it was there and felt it, but had been told it was a cloud cast by the wars. 

Now she knew better. The lowest levels of Coruscant wailed softly, the deepest depths of the place a well of suffering that didn’t - couldn’t - have anything to do with the Clone Wars. The underworld was its own hell, thousands upon thousands of years of billions upon billions of people in pain or causing it, echoing through the ages into the present. If the wars had cast a shadow over the planet, it was nothing but the sky coming down to meet the decay of abuse that was always trying to claw its way up to the surface.

Chel would never voice the idea, given the trouble it might start, but she began to imagine that it was what a Sith Temple might feel like.

She spent her day distractedly trying to shake off the last of the haze while simultaneously trying to ignore the closeness of a horror that was altogether too mundane and painfully familiar.

Every now and then the mind healer she saw would ask her if there was anywhere she wanted to go, anyone she wanted to see, anything she wanted to do. The answer Chel had - which was the answer she mostly had to anything - was usually ringing silence. 

Then the mind healer would proceed to make suggestions: there were saber demos that Chel used to enjoy participating in, group movement meditation on the grass in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and messages on her comm line to respond to. Chel didn’t want to be looked at, found the presence of too many strangers overwhelming, and couldn’t bear the idea that some of the comm line messages might still be for Dain.

Lying on the floor in the early morning following her realization, she had a second moment of clarity. It didn’t come as a revelation, or as a wave of feeling, but as a muttered moment of opinion that made it out through the numbness.

“I want a drink,” she stated to herself in the dark. Saying the words out loud was like snatching a fleeting moment of personhood out of the air, and she held onto it fiercely.

She did not tell the mind healer this, didn’t talk about the memories she had of yellow light in cantinas when she was far too young to be there, or the sensation of falling asleep in ship cabins, listening to the voices of the crew as they took an evening off, mostly laughing, mostly wildly, uninhibitedly happy. It wasn’t a particularly Jedi thing to take comfort in, despite the fact that resonating happiness spreading from other people into herself was a perfectly normal thing for an empathic species.

Nor was the way her first drink - only a small sip, just enough to grimace at the taste - had stung, but also been a warmth spreading through her chest. It hadn’t been given to her by Dain - who was far too principled to drink herself, despite her usual dubious company - and the woman had been _livid_. 

The first time Chel had been properly drunk had been an overnight stay on her best friend’s ship while both Dain and his parents were away. They’d played darts until Valentii couldn’t hit the board, and then played card games until she couldn’t remember the rules.

The memory was far more valuable than anything the Temple could offer, but she didn’t want to hear the judgement against herself and Dain that that would bring, and so she kept giving the mind healer ringing silence.

The slight increase in engagement with the world around her was noted anyway.

One night, when it was so late that it was early morning, Chel was faced with a person she was aware was a friend. He found her in the old dojo as she tested her limits, pushing herself into the most acrobatic katas she could currently manage - her muscles ached, but the memory of the kata’s perfect execution felt almost within reach - bursting through the door when he heard her trip and fall hard, cheek slamming painfully into the mat.

“Are you al -” his eyes widened, and his expression brightened. “Chel!”

Immediately his face clouded as he watched her spring to her feet and then stumble back, saber up and lit with the purple blade held in an embarrassingly messy offensive stance. They stared at each other as he tried to make sense of her behaviour and she took him in, her breathing slowing.

The human was taller than she remembered, the light brown of his Jedi robes standing out against the dark brown of his skin. Chel had left the lights of the dojo off, relying on the glow of false dawn in the interior garden that streamed through the windows, but his dark eyes still managed to catch light. He had grown a beard. It was ugly.

“Hayda,” she said as she finally blinked through enough recognition to summon a name. She lowered her saber to her side, and then withdrew the blade.

“I had no idea you were back,” he said, walking forward with enough hesitation that Chel felt guilty. 

“Yeah,” she replied.

“You look awful,” he commented as he got close enough that the grey light of dawn was enough to make her features out.

Her long black hair was tangled and sticking with sweat to her face; she left it down most of the time, as the only thing that was worse than the feeling of it against her skin was the feeling of it pulling. She knew she was thin, that her face was always a little bit drawn, that she hadn’t yet earned all her strength back. Exhaustion suddenly pricked at her eyes - she hadn’t been able to sleep for several nights now.

“Yeah,” she repeated.

“I’ve been back for a week,” he said. “Mission on Davna with Master Paleon ran long, but ended well. You?”

“Two months,” said Chel flatly. “It was a shit show.”

“How’s Master Dain?” he asked.

“Dead,” said Chel. She felt like she was out of her body. It was one thing to know, to be talked at about it by mind healers. It was another thing entirely to say it herself to someone who wasn’t trying to fix her.

“Ah,” said Hayda awkwardly. Still, the reality of war had been with them for years. “It really was a bit of a shit show, then.”

Chel felt herself properly smile for the first time since she’d been back. A twisted, bitter little thing, but a smile nonetheless. “You have no idea.”

“I haven’t lost my Master, anyway,” he said wryly. _Yet_. The word none of them ever said was _yet_. “I’m heading to breakfast, if you’re interested, there’s a couple of us who try to get together when we…” he trailed off as Chel’s smile faded back to emptiness. “... Oh-Seven Standard, every day,” he offered. “In the meditation garden one level up from here.”

Chel swallowed, then nodded, eyes averted.

“If you’re ever interested,” he emphasized.

She thought about it every day, but couldn’t bring herself to face anybody who knew her. Hayda may not have been aware, but there were enough rumors. Enough rumors that were true.

Although her eyes had managed to adjust to the light around her, Chel went back to moving only at night.

A week later, the mind healer made her face it anyway.

“Hayda says hello, by the way,” the woman said. 

Chel’s eyes flickered up and stayed there. She was getting better at it.

“He comes by every now and then between assignments,” explained the healer. “I think he’s working up the courage to ask to train here, instead of in the field.”

“Would his Master let him?” asked Chel after a pause. Hayda and his Master hadn’t always seen eye to eye on how to best use their talents in the wars.

“She’s a stubborn woman,” said the healer wistfully. Then she changed topics. “He thinks you’re avoiding him.”

“Yes,” said Chel into the silence once it became clear that she was expected to answer. “No,” she immediately amended. She paused. “Not him specifically.”

The healer laughed. “It would be good for you to speak to someone other than me. I know you’re not exactly fond of being here,” she said gently.

Chel’s eyes went back down for the rest of the somewhat one-sided conversation.

Three days later she went.


	3. Heroes and Scandals

Hayda had obviously warned them about the possibility of her joining them for breakfast. They welcomed her and didn’t comment when she barely nodded back without eye contact. They spoke to her warmly, usually to offer her things, suggesting without asking direct questions. It left Chel feeling both thankful at the minimal expectations and irritated at being coddled. Regardless of how she felt about it, Chel took advantage of the space Hayda had given her to adjust herself to the people around her.

Kishlee and her Master worked in the Archives more often than they were on assignment, and Chel used to see her with some regularity compared to the others. Her awkward attempts to reconnect and give Chel comfort mostly consisted of book recommendations. Before her year away, Chel had thought they were close. They hadn’t been.

Although they’d grown up together in the creche and been close as initiates, she had seen Righ far less since they’d both been apprenticed, her and her master working the opposite of Chel and Dain’s more covert Outer Rim missions. They worked closely with clones on the front lines, to the point that her Core accent had loosened into something more resembling the clone’s.

From her harsh and unforgiving opinions and eagerness to be off medical leave, it sounded like she and her Master were more a Commander and a General than Jedi. A year ago Chel would have tried to stifle the deeply uncharitable thought. Now she settled for just keeping it out of her expression.

Jerav and Bondett were the ones who had suggested the daily breakfast. Whether or not the others were aware was unclear, but it was obvious to Chel that the whole thing was, to some degree, a cover to avoid anyone questioning the exact nature of their _friendship_. Although she hadn’t seen them almost since she’d been taken as a padawan, they were kind and thoughtful, and suddenly the Order’s attitude towards relationships rankled. They deserved to be happy.

Chel left them within an hour, and spent the rest of her day silent in her quarters in the dark, utterly exhausted by the effort involved in simply being around other people. The next two days she skipped, but the day after that she went, and from then on managed to be there every morning, though she never stayed long. 

The people at the breakfast changed routinely; some were only in the Temple for a few hours and took advantage of the time to speak with their peers. She didn’t know them all, the social network was so broad, now spread across more age groups than it had been before as Masters and Apprentices mixed with others in the Order.

Several of the older ones had been knighted, and were at turns embarrassed at the gentle ribbing they received and proud of the title. Chel didn't participate. She couldn't think of anything to be embarrassed or particularly proud of. 

It was Righ who finally got frustrated with Chel’s non-participatory presence, her discomfort with the shift in personality intense.

“What do you think?” she asked abruptly.

Chel hadn’t been listening to the conversation, instead staring out the window at Coruscant, painfully, unintentionally meditating on the soft echoes of the wailing lower levels. She blinked as the rest of them went silent, looking back at the group. Righ seemed to expect some kind of apology for her lack of attention. She didn’t give it to her.

“About what?” she asked. 

“We were just talking about whether or not the Seppies have a point,” she said. She gestured at the human next to her. “Hayda here thinks they do, the traitor.” She laughed like she was joking, but there was an edge underneath it.

Chel stared for a moment, then looked away and shrugged. 

“Oh come on, you've got to have some thoughts,” said Righ. 

“She's been gone for a long time,” cut in Hayda.

“She’s been back for months though, right?” asked Righ, failing to speak directly to Chel. “So she has to have _some_ opinion on it.”

“No, she doesn't,” said Hayda. 

The rest of the people at breakfast stayed silent - this was an unexpected and uncomfortable change in a routine argument between Hayda and Righ. Chel went from staring down at the frame of the window to watching them, the continuous use of third person to discuss her like an object making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. 

“I do have an opinion,” she said quietly as the gut twisting horror turned into active, disgusted anger.

They kept going, and as she considered whether it was worth it to raise her voice, one of the others spoke up.

“Shut up,” hissed Ashlyn.

Chel looked at her with mild surprise along with everybody else. She didn’t know Ashlyn well; they hadn’t met before breakfast, and Ashlyn spoke only marginally more often than Chel did.

Ashlyn looked at Chel with a sympathetic sort of interest. “I think you wanted to say something?” she asked, pointedly ignoring Righ and Hayda.

“I did,” said Chel, her voice just a little stronger than it had been the first time.

“See?” said Righ, leaning in to speak sideways to Hayda. “Bet she’s on my side against the Seppies.” Hayda elbowed her back. “So, what do you think?” Righ asked expectantly.

“I think,” said Chel slowly, “that maybe the next time your Master takes you to meditation - if either of you still have time for that, in between earning medals - you should spend some of it thinking about why you’re so defensive.”

The silence was long as the words sank in and Chel stared Righ down. She couldn’t help but savour her growing discomfort, and the satisfaction was what made her capable of keeping up the stare for as long as she did. Righ muttered something about not being defensive, Chel refused to argue the point, and conversation between the others at breakfast began to pick up around them. Righ looked away first; Chel went back to staring out the window.

“You should be knighted for that,” whispered Ashlyn, leaning close to Chel so the others couldn’t hear.

Chel threw her a wan smile.

As time moved on and Chel began to interact more with the people around her, she began to pay more attention to the Temple at large. It was filled with far more heroes and scandals and people who weren’t Jedi than Chel remembered. Moving as she did during the night or in back hallways, she avoided most of the intrigue that followed herself; she wasn’t a hero, and the scandal was a quagmire of unconfirmed rumors, not a major drama involving names like “Krell” or “Tyden” or “Skywalker”.

Because of this, her meeting with the Jedi Council was repeatedly postponed, and although at first Chel had been thankful for the time to recover, the longer they failed to summon her, the more it became an object of dread.

Finally they set a date and time that seemed likely to stick, and the anxiety truly began to mount. Not that anybody noticed. It didn’t really affect her already nervous behavior.

Two days before she went to see them, she decided she really did want that drink, and resolved to get it. It was distressingly easy, nothing but a trip down to one of the hangars and a brief conversation with a civilian engineer. The Force and her empathy nudged the human woman into offering a sip from her flask. Chel felt guilty right up until the warmth bloomed in her chest.

“I’ve got more, if you like,” said the woman hesitantly. Chel realized with some embarrassment that she’d been staring down at the flask with something like wonder. She looked up, and the woman laughed. “Looks like you could use it. You’re not the first one.”

Chel nodded, and the engineer caught her by the hand to pull her along towards a set of large crates. It was the first time Chel had been touched by someone who wasn’t a healer since she’d gotten back, and she struggled not to flinch. Apparently she succeeded - the engineer didn’t notice.

Her hand was rough, callused, not far from how Chel’s had been when she’d fought and worked, before she was kept caged for a year and slowly broken down. There was some oil still on it that the other woman hadn’t properly cleaned off, and it immediately spread to Chel’s hand. She pulled from the flask before she decided she didn’t mind.

“I’m Rooks,” said the woman ahead of her. “I mean, I’m Tracy Gurrel, but I’m the youngest person here who gets to work on space faring ships, so I’m Rooks.”

As Tracy spoke, it dawned on Chel that the woman had been inclined to like her even before she’d been nudged in the direction Chel wanted. More than anything Chel had just given her confidence.

“Chel Nerala,” she offered quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Master -”

“Just Chel,” she interrupted.

“Alright,” Tracy laughed. Chel could feel the way Tracy was flattered at having a Jedi offer her first name spread from her hand and into Chel’s.

“We’re really not supposed to have this,” said Tracy, rounding the corner and out of view of the rest of the hangar, leading Chel to a set of crates. She pushed one to the side, pulled another away from the wall, and opened it. From inside she produced a bottle. “But management ignores it these days, as long as we keep it to down time. Morale, and all that.” She handed it over.

“I should give you something,” replied Chel after a pause, staring down at the bottle. “I don’t really… have anything though… at all.” Not even, Chel now realized, clothes that she felt comfortable in.

“A kiss’d do it,” joked Tracy as she pushed the crates all back in place. 

A joke out loud, anyway - the wistful truth underneath was easy for Chel’s empathy to catch, no matter how easily disguised out loud. The wistfulness somewhat gentled the harsh reality that had so recently made the joke anything but.

“Haven’t kissed a Jedi. Could knock it off my bucket list,” continued Tracy.

She turned in time to see Chel swallow, desperately trying to fight off memories of those words coming from the mouths of leering men as they bought their time with her.

“I didn’t mean it,” she clarified immediately, horrified at the reaction. “I just - you know, you seemed a bit - like that kind of joke would be - younger Jedi usually aren’t…”

“Humorless,” finished Chel flatly.

Tracy bit her lip, and Chel looked away from her. She took a deep breath to ease the sudden shaking, and then looked back up, properly taking Tracy in for what she was. The human woman had warm eyes, light brown, filled with concern and guilt. She was wringing her hands, spreading the black oil a little further around. Her clothing was the uniform of the hangar - but altered in places, patched with non-regulation colours, dirty and ripped at the edges.

Pretty and well meaning and _normal_.

Chel pulled from Tracy’s flask, the warmth spreading through her chest and drawing out just a bit of the recklessness that had ruined her in the first place. She stepped forward to give Tracy the kiss. The movement was a surprise to Tracy, but not an unwelcome one, and she leaned forward to meet her.

Unlike her hands, Tracy’s lips were soft, a different, distracting kind of warmth. The kiss was shallow, and didn’t last long. The pause as they looked at each other after was awkward, though neither properly stepped back.

“You’re bad at this,” said Tracy with a laugh.

“That’s really not surprising,” replied Chel dryly.

“I suppose it’s not going to happen again,” said Tracy, hesitant voice touched with hope.

“Not a chance,” said Chel. She smiled as she said it. A real smile, not twisted or bitter or wry.

“Fair enough,” laughed Tracy as she stepped back, leaning against the crate behind her. “There is something else you could do for me, though,” she said, her expression going serious. “If you’re up for it.”

Chel kept her eyes on Tracy’s to make it clear she was listening.

“If you could just… come down here and talk to everyone, sometimes, maybe even come have a bit of a drink with us,” she said, “I’d appreciate that. Ever since the bombing… not a lot was done to make anybody down here less afraid. There’s some resentment about it - it’s stressful, working in the Jedi Temple with people who don’t really like Jedi.”

“Bombing?” asked Chel, her brow furrowed.

“You don’t know?” was the disbelieving response.

“I’ve been… away,” explained Chel. “Far. For a long time.”

Tracy frowned, and Chel sat on a small crate off to the side. The story seemed like it might be a long one. 

An attack on the Temple that killed more civilians than Jedi that had taken place at the end of the very hangar they sat in. The paranoia it created, the rumors that a Jedi had done it - rumors that became facts, though the first Jedi in question had been framed. An expulsion from the Order, the Padawan turned over to the Republic for a brief sham of a trial which was interrupted by a Knight dragged in. 

A Knight who confessed to the crime, who gave reasons for her actions that Chel found uncomfortably convincing. A Padawan who walked publicly down the steps of the Temple rather than go back to the people who had betrayed her.

By the end Chel was grateful she’d had alcohol on hand. The buzz gave her distance, a fog to soften the edges of the thing as she numbly walked her way back up to her quarters. Alone in her quarters in the dark, thinking about Barriss in a prison cell - always watched every second of every day, wasting away and waiting for death as the Senate debated her life like it was a game - the buzz wasn’t quite enough.

The times she’d hurt the least during slavery were the times she was drugged into compliance; a combination of her lack of memory and a different sort of clientele. The dim thought processes, vaguely ill twist in her stomach, and floating stillness of the alcohol was by far close enough to make her feel _safe_ in a way that she hadn’t since she had been back at the Temple. 

It was a deeply sick comfort. But it was also almost immediate, incredibly thorough, free of any particular judgement, and _easy_.

Chel slept through breakfast the next morning, waking in the early afternoon curled on the couch in her quarters. Her mouth was dry, her head hurt, and she marvelled through her haze that she’d managed for the first time to sleep on something softer than the floor. 

“Barriss,” she murmured as she stared at the fabric of the back of the couch. 

They’d known each other in a passing sort of way, friendly acquaintances nodding to each other with a smile in the Temple. Once or twice they’d sparred, and in one single case, when they were halfway through their apprenticeships, had spent an entire assignment commiserating about the flaws in their Masters. 

Chel wished they’d known each other better.

Like an idiot, Chel had spent hours in the dark after leaving Tracy watching holonet coverage, listening to what Barriss had to say over and over. In interviews people repeatedly said they didn’t understand, and every time Chel had cursed them. Barriss had said why, clearly and without apology.

“You’re wrong, though,” said Chel quietly as she collected her thoughts. “And a fucking asshole,” she added as she thought about Ahsoka Tano and the harsh lights of the Republic paling her orange skin. 

She spent the afternoon watching Initiates and junior Padawans learn katas in one of the larger dojos, idly making note of which katas she’d been neglecting. The mind healer found her there, and Chel was cold with her. The woman didn’t seem to mind. An off day was, in fact, an improvement over three and a half months of no apparent feeling either way.

Chel overworked herself that evening, training as hard as possible for as long as possible overnight. Shii-Cho, to burn her thoughts away. Niman, the only form she’d learned from Dain. Trakata, which was where her heart belonged.

She skipped breakfast on purpose in order to catch some sleep before seeing the Council in the afternoon. It didn’t really work, and Chel decided to repeat her stretches one last time in her room. 

Avoiding main thoroughfares through the Temple, she made her way to the Council chambers still covered in sweat.

Hayda caught her in the lift, running down the hall, skidding to a stop just as the lift doors opened to let Chel enter.

“I thought you might want company,” he said with a smile, stepping into the lift next to her.

Chel kept her eyes down, as she usually did.

“I know I’d want it, if I was going to speak to the Council alone,” he said kindly.

“Yeah,” said Chel.

There was a long pause as Hayda gave her space. Usually, his timing for this was good, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

“When were you going to tell me about Barriss?” asked Chel without looking up.

“What?” replied Hayda with surprise and dismay.

Chel glanced up, fixing her eyes on him as she spoke flatly. “When were you going to tell me about Barriss?”

“It just… seemed like the wrong time,” said Hayda.

“Is there a right time to tell someone their home was bombed by someone they know?” asked Chel.

“It’s a lot to process, is all,” he said defensively. “You’ve had a lot going on.”

“So you were just going to wait until someone like Righ asked me what my opinion was on whether or not Barriss should be executed,” stated Chel, trying to keep her expression from being cold and failing utterly.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” he slowly admitted.

“Thanks,” said Chel bitterly, going back to staring at the floor.

This silence was uncomfortable, and as the lift reached the last few levels of travel, Chel pulled out Tracy’s flask. She threw back well over half, coughing when she was finished - the strong shit for emergencies, Tracy had told her with a laugh.

“Chel…” said Hayda with concern.

She glanced at him, finished it, and then offered it to him empty.

“Do me a favor and take that back to Tracy Gurrell in engineering,” said Chel. The hangar was very nearly as far away from the Council as a person could go in the Temple without special clearance for the lower levels. “You might have to ask for Rooks. Tell her I said thanks.”

Hayda took it, at a loss for words, and although Chel’s face had fallen back behind her hair, eyes on the floor, she felt him staring. Chel took a deep breath as the lift slowed to a stop, and left him there without saying goodbye.


	4. Matters of Conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I thought "updates Sundays" was going to be "sometimes as early as late Saturday evening", but turns out the anxiety of finals season plays hell with your sense of time.
> 
> Anyway, our first canon character cameos today, and heads up that there's a proper in depth-ish discussion of sex trafficking and slavery this chapter.

Chel had been to see the Council before, of course - the last time it was with Dain, to be briefed on their assignment. Before, the doors had seemed larger than life, the Council intimidating, and she had observed the discussion between Dain and the Masters with careful attention, trying to ignore the view out the windows. 

Now Chel was here alone, unfocused, and ambivalent about their authority. The doors seemed to be no larger than any other set of doors, and she found herself gaining a new appreciation for the browns and yellows of the star-shaped pattern on the floor. This wasn’t how Chel had ever envisioned the debrief going.

She couldn’t bring herself to particularly care about what Master Windu had to say at the start. Words about Dain, a brief observation about her progress, and other things that made her feel numb. 

Instead Chel took in the feeling of the room. A Jedi Master could easily mask their presence in the Force, and could put shade over their emotions - but Zeltron empathy was different. It pulled at the raw underbelly of a person’s mind, and had nothing to do with the Force. Today she wished she didn’t have it. 

Few of the Masters were present, her situation and status not important enough for them all to be holo’d in. The ones that were there were wrapped in exhaustion, everything underneath muddled. They were all trying to pay attention, but she wasn’t the first person they’d seen that day, and several had hardly slept. 

Sympathy for them was difficult, in this well-lit room with comfortable chairs.

“Padawan Nerala,” came Windu’s voice.

Chel very nearly looked up, and then didn’t.

“In your own words, please,” he said. The tone was formal as ever, but the feeling that came from him was sympathetic bordering on pity.

She’d known this was coming, and took a breath meant to be deep that wasn’t. At least forewarned was forearmed, and she wasn’t shaking.

“You asked us to collect information,” she started with. “About slave trade routes, to prove suspicions about Separatist funding, cut off supply lines, and… so on…” something was trying to push forward in her thoughts as she stared at the floor, and she ignored it. “We decided we might as well start at home,” she continued. “Slavers and smugglers don’t really respect borders, and there was some legislation, or some such, passed in the Senate, that was supposed to be about clones. We actually… spent a lot of time on Coruscant…”

In the wailing underbelly. Millions and millions of people suffering for thousands and thousands of years. Chel had felt ill whenever they were there, and put it down to the filthy air. Master Dain had trouble sleeping to the point that she often spent several days awake, and in retrospect, it was clear why. 

“We found a few things,” she said, “but nothing really relevant to the assignment. We… followed some of them anyway… slavery is supposed to be illegal…” the thing trying to catch her attention was nagging at her again.

“Your assignment wasn’t to investigate corruption in the Senate,” said Master Tiin with irritation.

“Matters of conscience often don’t align with an assignment,” replied Master Kenobi. He was polite, but there was something fierce and angry underneath. 

“So they should be reported to the Council to be dealt with accordingly,” was the sharp response.

“What’s done is done,” said Windu before an argument could start. “We’re dealing with what was and is, not discussing theoreticals.”

Chel had briefly stopped breathing, and now felt lightheaded.

“If you would,” said Windu, his voice aimed in her direction.

She swallowed. “It was frustrating to be getting nowhere,” she said shakily, her voice gaining strength as she continued speaking. “So I suggested that I go undercover, see what was happening first hand. Master Dain wouldn’t do it. But we kept losing contacts… slaves just disappear, yeah? Buyers are skittish, sellers even more so… you can't really get an in without incriminating yourself…” Chel shrugged. 

Then she paused, waiting for the inevitable commentary about Dain. It didn’t come, Master Windu’s chastisement apparently taken to heart.

“It might have worked,” said Chel, though her tone made it clear she didn’t quite believe it. “Master Dain and I were careful, we thought it through, started in neutral space but not near the Hutts, we aimed to have me go towards Separatist space, the Zygerrians maybe, there’s already information about them…”

A sharp breath from Master Kenobi almost made Chel pause.

“We wanted the routes, not anything else, that was… we’d been getting sidetracked,” continued Chel. Her eyes flickered up at Master Tiin for hardly a second, and she stopped for a breath. 

“The first men who bought me were a front for the Vurish Gang, and they knew exactly who I was. They called me by name the second they had me alone, the first thing they did was threaten other girls to make me behave… I didn't, I tried to… they spaced a girl because of me.” She’d cried for her already, and so she didn’t now. “I let them do whatever they wanted to me after that.”

She shifted on her feet. Master Kenobi was an honest sort of person; he wasn’t burying his emotions in the Force. The sorrow had a familiar feel to it, as though he, unlike the others, personally understood. Chel glanced at him, and he caught her eyes, hand over his mouth. Like he’d been stroking his beard and stopped at some point while she was talking. 

“Do you know where they took you?” asked Windu into the silence.

Chel shook her head, and her eyes went back down. “They kept me separate and in the dark, away from the other girls, I stayed on the ship out in space until I was bought so I’d never have anything to orient myself, they’d really… it’s a game,” Chel suddenly remembered. “While they’re drunk. How to cage a Jedi. I was… proof of concept,” her expression twisted. “Icing on the cake that I was female. Another game, how to fuck with a Jedi while fucking them,” she choked on a laugh and silently thanked the Force for Tracy and her emergency flask as she felt herself start to spiral. 

“You told the mind healer it was Burlen Gyr who bought you,” prompted Windu. He used the name deliberately, dragging her back into the present.

“To keep as a pet,” nodded Chel, who was forced by the movement to brush her hair away from her face. “Until he got bored of me, which was fast, since I couldn’t really… perform. Misbehaving Jedi schutta are expensive for such a shitty lay,” she felt his words come out before she could hold them back. The alcohol was starting to sneak up on her.

She pressed on. “So I went to Nar Shadaa -” useless, every pleasure slave went through Nar Shadaa. “I didn’t know that until after...” useless, this information was useless. “Passed through a few more… well, a lot of hands,” her eyes went to the ceiling as she half smiled at her own joke, ignoring the emotions of the Masters around her as best she could. She didn’t want to know. “I lost track when someone was smart enough to drug me.” She was a complete and utter waste of everyone’s time.

“You gave an extensive list to the healer when you arrived,” said Master Windu.

“I did?” asked Chel in confusion. It wasn’t at Windu she glanced, but at Master Kenobi.

“I heard you were quite insistent,” Kenobi replied. His encouraging smile was half-hearted enough that it somehow made the feeling of uselessness worse. “The healers were quite distressed at your refusal to let them attend to you before you made your report.”

There were a lot of reasons Chel could think of to not let the healers touch her, and she went back to studying the yellow floor. She couldn’t remember what had happened immediately after she’d arrived back. She didn’t remember arriving at all. That was probably for the best, even if it was inconvenient.

“A prudent decision, it seems,” said Windu. “If a reckless one.” There was more approval in his feelings than he let himself put into his voice.

“Many of your decisions were reckless,” observed Master Tiin.

Chel felt something in her well up that made her want to scream, but she couldn’t catch her breath to even speak an answer in anger.

“A fact of which I am sure Padawan Nerala is aware,” replied Master Koon calmly. It was said with good intentions, but the use of third person made her not only want to scream, but also to be ill.

“Ignorant you were, but knowledge now you have,” came the voice of Master Yoda. 

Chel’s eyes snapped up properly for the first time since she’d said goodbye to Hayda. The green skinned alien was either so skilled at masking his presence in the Force that it really did mask his underlying emotion, or he felt very nearly nothing about the situation before him. Whichever one it was, the result was unsettling, and Chel swallowed as they stared at each other.

“Seek peace now, you will,” he finished, his eyes soulful in a way that Chel found difficult to relate to.

The emotion Chel felt in that moment wasn’t an emotion at all, but feverish and unfocused, memories resurfacing of the Jedi Code mockingly, condescendingly, hatefully whispered in her ear as she was - 

“This meeting isn’t finished,” cut in Windu’s voice, strong and flat. His frustration was apparent just below the surface, but Chel could sense the weary callousness that guided his words.

“This meeting is just a formality,” said Chel quietly, scrabbling for something to hold herself in the present. She looked away from Master Yoda to Windu, suddenly feeling the same flatly affected anger as she’d felt when she stared down Righ. “Isn’t it?” the question, though softly spoken, was just short of an accusation.

“No,” said Master Windu. “Any decisions that have already been made aren’t final.”

“Well?” asked Chel, too angry and tipsy to care that she was being rude. “What were your decisions?”

Guilt radiated from Master Kenobi in waves, and Chel whirled to look at him.

“You’re going to do nothing,” whispered Chel. “I went through - I just repeated it for - I gave you what intel I had and -” the thing that had nagged at her was suddenly clear, the warmth of the alcohol overwhelmed, and her suffering transformed into irrational anger. “Which of you bitches left me for dead?” she asked, turning in a slow circle, studying each of the present Masters in turn.

Guilt, regret, stubborn resolution, all the emotions of people who had either told Master Dain that Chel was worthless, or had done nothing. She finished staring at Master Yoda, a gremlin that was devoid of anything she could understand, expression giving away nothing except pity.

“We’re going to do something,” said Master Windu. “The information you’ve given us is critical to -”

“About the girls,” interrupted Chel. “About the girls, and the others, the slaves that went to Zygerria -” she threw the word at Master Kenobi - “or Kessel, or to - there are so many who die in _transit_ -”

“The Separatists are working with an entire network of slavers,” Master Tiin informed her. As though she didn’t know.

“We started on Coruscant!” said Chel, feeling her volume rising. “They’re here! There’s slavers _here_ , they’re on our _doorstep_ -”

“The unfortunate truth is that the war takes priority,” stated Master Windu sternly.

“We’re supposed to serve the Force, not the Senate!” shouted Chel. “If you had helped my Master, given her something, _anything_ to work with to help find me, it's not as though you'd have had to give her anything involved, she did it alone without any help from _you_ \- so many of those slaves would be alive, we could be helping more, Master Dain would still be alive, we could both be fighting your stupid war, she could be training another Padawan by now -”

“Complex that would have been, so attached was she to her current Padawan,” commented Yoda.

“Attachment or responsibility?” snapped Chel. Her head was spinning. 

“The former may easily be disguised as the latter,” said Master Yoda. He maintained the appearance of serenity, and it was infuriating. There wasn’t any fighting eight hundred years of stubborn disapproval.

Chel’s anger dissipated, unable to be maintained for long, a brief flame of rebellion that extinguished itself by way of sheer exhaustion within minutes. She’d been that way for months, well before she made it back to the Temple.

“Why did you leave me?” asked Chel, eyes still up, focused on Windu. She fought tears and lost - she knew why. 

“War requires… difficult decisions,” said Master Windu. She could feel his regret at his own words immediately after he said them.

“What did I do to deserve it?” she asked, her voice going weak.

“You didn’t do anything,” offered Master Kenobi, trying desperately to keep a hold on his anger.

When she looked at him she expected more, and got nothing. She looked back down, trying to wrestle with why that felt more like a betrayal than anything else that had been said.

“In fact, it was decided that this was your Trial,” said Master Tiin. There was a slight sour note in how he felt. It didn’t make it into his voice, and it wandered across her mind that seeing the Council without the benefit of empathy would be hellishly misleading.

“Your tenacity through the ordeal and the skill of your escape was admirable and deserving of our utmost respect,” said Master Koon.

There was a pause, as though they were giving her time to think it over.

“Is that what you said to Ahsoka Tano?” asked Chel, her voice trembling as much as all her limbs were. She didn’t bother to wipe away the tears on her face, instead letting them fall where they would.

Master Koon took a sharp breath, and Chel realized that he must have had some connection to her, the sorrow from him was so thick. Master Kenobi was in anguish, and Chel couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Everyone knew who had trained Skywalker, and everyone knew who had trained Tano. The silence was extended and aching, the regret all consuming across every one of them - even Yoda faintly exuded the emotion.

“May I go?” her voice was small and drained. “I’d like to get some sleep.”

They released her with instructions to see the mind healer, and she walked the halls with her hand against the wall to steady herself, unsure as to whether it was the lack of sleep or the alcohol or the emotional aftershocks that were keeping her from walking straight. The looks she received came from people that hardly seemed real, the Temple filled with light that made her feel like she was walking on empty air.

Instead of walking to the mind healer, she went to where she knew Hayda’s rooms were, and sat on the floor next to the door with her arms around her knees, hoping that it would be him and not his Master that appeared first.

For the first time in what felt like a long while, luck was on her side.

When he rounded the corner she looked up and he stopped.

“It went that well?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Chel from where she sat on the floor, her cheeks still stained with tears.

He closed the space and sat next to her. “Me too.”

“Thank you for being in the lift,” said Chel.

“No problem,” he replied. “Though maybe next time only half the flask?” he joked.

Chel laughed weakly and used her sleeve to wipe at her face like a youngling. “No,” she said. “I think it was the right amount.”


	5. Mutual Anxiety

Chel’s knighting was a small affair, and a brief one - there were few things she wanted less than to be stared at in the centre of a circle by people focused on her status as a Jedi. She spent the day of meditation in the Tranquility Spire largely sitting on the floor with her forehead pressed against the wall, thoughts drifting. During the ceremony her head spun, the requirement that she kneel before so many men making her repeatedly swallow against the accompanying memory of acid and bile.

It was rare that Chel thought about the place in her mind where the bond she’d shared with her Master was. Ignoring it was easy enough, a tiny alienation from the Force that was vastly overshadowed by her cratered sense of self and the fact that Master Dain was missing in the flesh. The ceremony forced the quiet lack of _something_ to the forefront until the emptiness was aching.

The masters present had to have felt her turmoil, but it didn’t seem to particularly matter. Everything was wrong and raw and the Council was knighting her anyway.

Afterward, one of the masters - she wasn’t ever certain which - placed a hand on her shoulder from behind. She flinched away from the unexpected touch so sharply she almost stumbled, and stubbornly refused to stop walking, ignoring whatever they had to say.

That night Chel stood in the ‘fresher, leaning heavily on the sink counter and staring into the mirror. This was a thing she generally avoided, her unfamiliar appearance an unpleasant reminder of what she’d escaped. Tonight, with a bottle of Valentii’s favourite liquor to keep her company, she let herself dwell on it.

She looked exhausted, her red skin slightly sallow. This was no surprise, as that was how she felt the vast majority of the time, the feeling of weight on her shoulders constant. Odds seemed good that the dark circles under her eyes were very nearly permanent.

Behind her left ear and out of sight there was a brand from her last owners, a scar raised deliberately from repeated scrapings and no application of bacta, permanent and impossible to get rid of. The only part of her body they allowed to be ugly was this; even if she was stolen, bought, or escaped, the evidence of them would always be there.

Chel held her breath and cautiously reached up to touch it, expecting it to sting. It didn’t, finally properly healed over, and she shut her eyes, breathing deep to steady herself as much as she could. Then she ran her fingers over it harder, trying to understand what the symbol looked like for the first time since it had been applied. The other girls had gone out of their way to check what it looked like on each other. Chel never had.

It was futile, though the alcohol in her system had her trying for far longer than was reasonable. She ended the entire process with the spot stinging exactly the way it was meant to.

On the right there was a lock of hair that was significantly shorter than the rest. The remains of her Padawan braid. She curled it around a finger, staring into her own blue eyes in the mirror in order to avoid having to look at it directly. It wasn’t at the knighting that it had been cut, but just before she was enslaved - it would have been absurd to be undercover with it still in place.

She tugged on it gently, used her other hand to pull from her bottle, and tugged at it again.

Dain had half joked about the ancient days when Masters could knight their own Padawans, and they’d proceeded to enact what they both knew of it - because of course they’d both read those records independently of one another. Maybe they should have paid closer attention to their mutual anxiety.

Chel let go of the tiny lock of hair and collected all of her hair over her shoulder. It was long, waist length, blue black and silken. The one vanity she had ever had in her life, and now she had trouble brushing it all the way to the end. The men had loved it too, a convenient tool to drag her around with, to sink harsh fingers into and control her movements, to hold her in the best place for them to use her.

She twisted it all around her fingers until she held it in her fist and gently tugged again on all of it at once. The sensation was uniquely repulsive, and she took it as an excuse to finish the bottle.

Setting the bottle aside, she pulled out the hilt of her saber, twirling it between fingers that were capable even when she would have trouble walking from the ‘fresher to the couch. The calluses were built back up, the result of fierce hard work between her meeting with the Council and her knighting, blisters healed with bacta and blistered several times again within the day. Her healer had been less than impressed, and Chel had done it anyway.

Mulling over her appearance, she let go of her hair as a whole, caught the shortest piece, and tried to measure its length in the mirror. Then she shrugged to herself, pulled it all to the nape of her neck, and sheared it off with her saber. 

The purple of its blade flashed in the mirror and she was briefly blinded. She started, burned her neck, swore incoherently, burned her hand and then dropped her saber. It flickered out on the way down amongst the falling locks of hair, clanging on the tiled floor. Chel slipped and tried to catch herself on the sink, but only managed to knock the bottle down with her. She fell backwards into the tub as the bottle broke and spread shards amongst the hair.

In the silence that followed, Chel sucked on the knuckle that was burned and explored the ugly and uneven length of her hair with her other hand. She sighed deeply in satisfaction, taking a moment to let the lightness of her head sink in. Then she pulled herself half up to look at the mess, eyes narrowed in order to focus. Glass and hair were everywhere, her saber had rolled next to the toilet, the ‘fresher smelled like burnt hair, and she was barefoot.

“Cleaning is for droids,” she decided as she let her head fall back, settling in to sleep right where she was in the tub.

In the morning, she was awoken by the sound of a knock on her door, an insistent rhythmic tap that slowly worked its way into her lethargic thought process. She groaned and sank deeper into the tub as awareness of her body sank in. She had a headache from the alcohol, her back was aching from the angle she’d slept at in the tub, and the unfamiliar feeling of the end of her hair along her jaw and neck was the best thing she’d ever felt.

“Knight Nerala?” came the voice of whoever was outside the door. “Are you in there?”

Chel took the time to put a name to the voice. Master Kenobi. Who, if he was as skilled as Master Dain - the odds were _very_ unlikely he wasn’t - knew perfectly well that she was there.

“Prick,” she muttered to herself as she struggled her way to sitting up. When she could look down at the floor she immediately groaned a second time and swore loudly as she let herself fall back. Cleaning might be for droids, but droids had to be requested, then approved, and despite the repeated urging of her mind healer, she’d never gotten around to it.

“Are you alright?” was the concerned follow up question from outside.

“I’m here,” she called in response, wincing at the volume of her own voice. “I just, I need, ah,” she peered down at the mess. “Just give me a minute.”

Partly out of spite and partly out of necessity, she took ten. 

Usually, these days, she would avoid using the Force for much of anything at all, but short of sitting in the tub until the nausea cleared and she could see a touch straighter, her only option was to carefully brush the detritus to one side with sweeping gestures of her fingers. When there was enough space for her to stand she did so, summoning her saber to hand as she stepped out of the ‘fresher and shut the door behind her.

She washed her face, her neck, and her hands in the kitchen sink, then did a brief half hearted pass at clearing the worst of the mess on the counters from view. The easiest thing to do was to just put most of the dirty dishes into the cupboards in the places they would belong if they were clean.

On her way through the living space to the bedroom, she collected laundry, dumping it on the bed next to her old holorecorder. This and changing clothes was all she used the room for - she currently alternated between sleeping on the floor and on the couch in the living space outside. She put on a clean pair of pants and an undertunic, but didn’t bother with anything else. If it was appropriate in a dojo while training, it was appropriate in her quarters, proper decorum in front of a master be damned.

When she cracked open the door, she had to squint against the light of the hall.

“Hello,” he said with cheer that was at least half false and swiftly sinking as he took her in, smell of burnt hair and all. 

“Yeah,” replied Chel, wishing she could force herself to make real eye contact and shaking her much shorter hair out of her face. It occurred to her that cutting in bangs might not be a terrible idea. Using scissors. 

“I have something for you,” he said, holding up two boxes, neither large enough that it couldn’t be held in one hand. He managed to make his tone less awkward than he felt. “Though, it feels a touch inappropriate to give it to you in a doorway.”

She took a moment to parse out the feeling. He didn’t actively want anything from her, and so she nodded.

“Is it worse for me to come in, or for you to come out?” he asked with a hesitant smile.

After a pause, Chel stepped aside to let him in, not bothering to turn on the light. Outside was bright, inside was dim, and painkillers still did nothing.

He sat on one end of the couch, and she took the other end, leaving half a metre of space between them.

“It isn’t uncommon for a Master to give their Apprentice a gift when they’re knighted, despite that it’s contrary to the Code,” he said with a wry smile. Nobody actually obeyed that rule, to the degree that it was an open, average joke. 

Chel just watched him, waiting for him to get to the point.

“From what I’ve heard it seemed like the sort of thing Knight Dain might have done, and so I thought I’d bring you something,” he set the slightly larger box in the space between them. “Of course she’d apparently already thought of it herself,” he continued with a laugh, setting the much smaller box next to it. “By the time Master Windu told me that, I’d already bought mine, so I brought it for you anyway.”

With slow deliberation, Chel chewed on the inside of her cheek and picked up Kenobi’s gift first. 

It was a plant. 

Her eyebrows raised as she stared down at the thing in her lap, healthy green leaves edged with purple-red in a pot that matched in colour.

“I admit it isn't very personal,” he said. He looked around the barren room. “And you might have to, ah, open one of the windows.”

Chel looked over at him sideways with suspicion. “Did one of the mind healers put you up to this?”

“What?” asked Kenobi with surprise. “No, I genuinely just thought it might be nice to have something living to… it does rather sound like something a mind healer might suggest,” he said weakly, “doesn't it?”

After a pause to look away, she tried to match his sincerity. “Thanks,” she said, setting it gently on the empty caf table, ignoring the sound of his relieved sigh.

She hesitated before she picked up the second box. It was small, light, and quite possibly contained absolutely nothing. Receiving some kind of obtuse lesson on something or other that she wouldn't figure out for years until one day it hit her in the face as a shipwreck of an epiphany was just as likely as anything else. 

The box was warm, and when Chel touched it, there was the brief idea of a song, a thrum in the Force that made her fingers move as fast as possible to open it. In it was a kyber crystal, already tinged blue, wrapped in twine and fastened to the bottom of the box. She stared, and so did Master Kenobi - extremely valuable, intensely personal, and completely inexplicable, given that her Master had returned her saber and that it didn't even come with a note.

As she collected the crystal out of the box and wound the twine it was wrapped in between her fingers, the thrum fell silent. She closed her hand around it and brought both hands up to hold it against her chest, letting the soft radiation in the Force work its way through her wrists and arms to fill her chest. 

She brought her knees up onto the couch to curl protectively around it, and fought to stifle a sob.

“Well,” said Master Kenobi as he abruptly stood. “I think I’d like some tea. Or some caf, if that’s what you have,” he looked down and Chel looked up, unable to formulate a response. He nodded. “Right. Caf.”

Chel listened as he moved through her kitchen, the mundane sound of someone making caf grounding her in the present. She focused on breathing, trying to keep it deep and even in order to prevent herself from crying _again_. It almost worked, tears forming but easily brushed away before they fell. 

When she heard Master Kenobi open a cupboard and sigh deeply upon finding her hidden dirty dishes, her next breath contained a nearly inaudible embarrassed laugh. If he heard, he didn’t comment.

She tied the crystal around her neck - the cord was the exact right length to wrap comfortably around three times - then slowly and silently dragged herself to her feet, bracing herself on the arm of the couch against her weak knees. She collected the potted plant off the table, and by the time Master Kenobi had come back around the corner, she was standing at the smallest window. The plant was on the sill, and the blind was cracked open, allowing her to see out into the garden beyond.

“It’s a lovely afternoon,” commented Kenobi as he sat down on the couch. “The weather out in the city is good enough that the air in the garden is a touch less filtered.”

Chel looked over sharply. “Afternoon?” she asked after swallowing, her eyes going to the comm unit and the blinking light that had been indicating missed messages for months now. She’d slept through not just her standing appointment with her healer, but the extra meeting with the mind healer that the other woman had specifically insisted on having the day after her knighting.

“Oh yes,” said Master Kenobi without concern as he sipped at his drink. “I checked here this morning, actually, after I found you weren’t at the breakfast your peers hold every day. I always thought that perhaps Ahsoka should…” he trailed off, looking pained. “But you must have still been asleep.”

“Yeah,” said Chel, looking at the tiny plant and playing with one of the leaves, her red skin pale now that she was paying attention to the colour against the deep green and purple of the plant. It was oddly soft, the texture of leather, but as thin as flimsi. She decided that it might not be a bad thing to ignite the mind healer’s mild ire at missing the appointment, rather than being on time and having to explain the decisions leading up to cutting her hair with a saber.

“Do you mind if I… ?” asked Kenobi, and when she looked up he was holding a small bottle of something over his caf.

She left the window to join him on the couch, pushing the cup of caf he’d left near her end of the table closer to his to indicate that if he was going to put Kalwa rum in his caf, she’d like some too. There was a moment of silence as they both sipped and appreciated the extra layer of bitterness.

“You’re not alone, you know,” began the human across from her.

Chel’s heart sank. This was a conversation she’d already had - several times.

“When I lost my Master I was knighted within the week, due to certain particular circumstances,” he said. This was new, and Chel’s cynicism was immediately muted and replaced with curiosity. She watched him carefully, her cup at her mouth. “It felt very wrong, and sometimes still does, even if it was objectively the best option,” he sighed. “There was also a mission I went on not long ago where I was enslaved for a time. Kadavo is a hellish place. Neither of these were the same as what you went through, of course,” he was being cautious, trying to gauge her reaction, “but they are also not so dissimilar that I cannot understand.”

“Someone I know,” replied Chel after a hesitation, “Ashlyn Yarun, said that there’s been a few Padawans knighted this way.”

He nodded. “Things are more desperate now than they were when you were captured,” he said. “You’ll likely be on assignment the very second the healer says you’re physically capable of combat.” The way he said it was as light and reassuring as he could make it. The way he felt was bitter.

Chel stared down into her cup of caf, suddenly painfully aware of her inability to comprehend more than one, maybe two, days at a time. Trying to imagine her future beyond that was almost impossible. Being put on active duty hadn’t even occurred to her.

“You’ll be alright,” said Kenobi with a sympathetic smile, misinterpreting her silence.

He stayed until he’d finished his cup of caf, talking with her about how to care for her plant and about what he’d done after Master Jinn died. The mind healer had always insisted that meditation and letting go of emotions was imperative to healing and avoiding the touch of the dark side - Kenobi asked what Dain would have suggested, and laughed when Chel realized that breathing deep, focusing on where she was in physical space, and letting everything wash out in her movement instead of struggling with it in regular meditation was what she was already doing.

“It’s the sort of thing Master Qui-Gon would have suggested,” he observed, “and the sort of thing I would be _terrible_ at.” 

When the mind healer came to check on her, he rebuffed her, making excuses on Chel’s behalf, and when his cup was finished, without thinking, Chel invited him to have another. He’d looked surprised and flattered, but regretfully stated that he had other obligations.

Afterwards, as she usually did when faced with something unfamiliar - especially if it involved interacting with other people - Chel lay exhausted on the couch doing absolutely nothing in the dark. This time, unlike before, she had the crystal to hold onto for comfort, and a sliver of light to watch travel across the floor, fading towards nothing as the artificial sun of the garden outside dimmed.


	6. Curated Sterility

Chel had expected it to be a week before she was able to look any of her friends in the eye. Instead, she was hovering at the door of the meditation garden at Oh-Seven-Thirty two days later, hesitating. There was something different, now, not from being knighted but since the meeting with the Council, and she hadn’t yet managed to place it.

Voices of conversation wafted out. Whether Yoda was capable of eating the yolk used in their breakfast, how young the initiates looked to them now, Hayda and Righ arguing about the Seps, a discussion of Ahsoka Tano -

“Do you think they would have knighted her?” asked Hayda.

“I think so,” said Righ confidently. “She’s a bloody war hero. I met her once, honest to the core, believed in the Order through and through, I knew she couldn’t have done it.”

“I hope they wouldn’t have,” said Kishlee. “She was younger than us, wasn’t she? That’d be so _young_.”

“If she was ready for it, she was ready for it,” stated Righ.

"Are you saying you’re not ready?” asked Hayda with teasing wonder.

There was a short silence as Righ shrugged. “Why break a team that’s working this well? The 223rd would be worse off,” she said with pride less for herself and more for her battalion as a whole. There was a note of frustrated worry to how she felt; she said she wasn't blacking out anymore and her mood swings were far less extreme, but the healers still hadn’t declared her fit for duty.

“Oh sure,” scoffed Hayda, missing the sincerity that was so obvious to Chel. “It’s all about _cohesion_.”

“There’s a lot of people being knighted who shouldn’t be,” said Kishlee before Righ and Hayda could argue. Chel felt herself go numb.

“Yeah,” agreed Ashlyn quietly, tone exhausted and despairing. Ashlyn had explained to Chel that although Ashlyn’s master was alive and both she and her master didn’t feel she was ready, knighthood was swiftly approaching - her master could no longer walk, but Ashlyn was a brilliant field strategist.

“We need more people on the ground,” argued Righ. “It’s the best course of action.”

“But who are we, if we abandon our customs for war?” asked Hayda, suddenly thoughtful.

“I heard,” said Kishlee, voice dropping so that Chel had to strain to hear, “that they knighted Chel three days ago.”

Chel’s breath caught at the implication, and she held it in.

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Hayda defensively.

“Yeah,” said Righ, the frown making it into her voice, “I mean, she’s sulky, but we’d all lose a duel with her like _that_ ,” she finished with a snap of her fingers, confident in Chel’s duelling ability even though they hadn’t sparred in years. 

“You know,” Kishlee paused, “because of the… you know, the rumors.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” snapped Ashlyn.

“What rumors?” asked Righ. 

Without thinking Chel stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame with her arms crossed, her mouth held in a bitter line. “I’m guessing the ones about how my Master fucked up so badly I spent a year as a slave being raped in a pleasure house,” she spat the words out like venom and then stared at Kishlee, daring her to speak.

Ashlyn bit her lip and looked away, and Hayda looked like he’d been punched at having it stated so baldly. Righ’s expression moved from horrified to hard in an instant and she turned her glare on Kishlee.

“Is it the celibacy that makes me ineligible for knighthood?” asked Chel, “or the fact that I shouted at the Council?”

Kishlee blanched.

Chel turned on her heel and tried to walk away fast enough that she couldn’t hear details of the fallout - Righ was shouting at Kishlee, something about dogmatic idiots who never left the Archives, and Hayda was too focused on trying to calm Righ down to follow her. Ashlyn said nothing, but the feeling of her grim satisfaction clung to Chel like smoke.

The numbness took hold of her again, and she let it lead her through the Temple, slowly walking the halls, a hand against the wall as she went, letting herself admit that the Temple was lonely. Never once had she felt lonely here, filled with warmth and light, surrounded by people she thought cared for and understood her. 

Even at her most uncharitable Chel wouldn’t say she was uncared for, but the only person who had bothered to understand how she was instead of how they wanted her to be had been Master Kenobi. She slowed in the shadow between windows that overlooked an empty dojo and tentatively opened herself to the Force, her utter lack of responsibility giving her the time needed to search the Temple.

Either he wasn’t there, or he didn’t want to be found. 

Chel sighed, her forehead resting against the wall. She blinked her eyes open as she began to withdraw from the Force - something caught before she was fully back within herself, and she took a sharp breath.

Valentii.

Chel ran through the Temple like there was a devil snapping at her heels, and when she was at the main entrance hall she skidded her way across the floor until she could throw herself at him. 

She buried her face in his chest and breathed him in, the smell of filtered ship air, clothes cleaned in a sonic instead of in water, a hint of real earth from a planet with real ground that had been struck by the rays of a real sun. The dirty imperfection of it all was refreshing after the carefully curated sterility of her months in the Temple.

“This is pretty fuckin’ enthusiastic for someone who’s been ignoring my comms for three months,” Val grumbled, letting her hold onto him and begrudgingly patting her on the back halfheartedly in response. 

Now she ignored him in person, refusing to let the overwhelming sense of relief and worry that poured off him keep her from appreciating the normalcy of his presence, the way the sound of his spacer’s accent compared to her Coruscanti one felt like home.

“Congratulations on being knighted, by the way,” he said after a moment. 

Chel shook her head against him, fingers gripping his shirt tight.

“... _Not_ congratulations on being knighted?” he asked in confusion and concern.

She shrugged.

“You cut your hair,” he observed awkwardly after a long silence as she continued to cling to his front. “It’s… something.”

Chel laughed weakly, still not moving away.

“Okay,” Valentii said at last, “you’re gonna have to give me a hint here, I’ve got nothin’.”

“You smell like dirt,” she mumbled.

“Thanks,” he snapped sarcastically. “Ignore me for three months, then insult me instead of saying hello. Real great friend.”

“I missed you,” she said, smiling against his chest.

“Are you drunk?” he asked after a moment.

Chel pushed away and looked up at him. “Not yet,” she said. It was so much easier to meet his eyes than it had been with anyone else.

“Don’t knights get an allowance or somethin’?” he asked, his face lighting up with possibility.

“Yeah,” said Chel with a frown. “Why?”

“Drinks are on you, then,” he replied cheerily.

“What?” asked Chel. Leaving the Temple hadn’t even occurred to her until now.

“I tell you what, though,” said Valentii as he picked at the seam over her shoulder, “we ain’t goin’ drinking with you dressed like that. Bet you anything Jedi get charged double.”

Chel looked down at herself and the beige Jedi robes she had been wearing since her return. Suddenly she loathed them, their colour, their texture, their cut, the way she’d never much liked them in the first place. The way they reminded her of the games the men had played with her.

“I miss wearing green,” said Chel quietly - she felt like she’d somehow forgotten.

“You’re in luck, then,” replied Valentii. He took a step back to shrug a bag off his shoulder. “I brought some of your stuff from the _Waterdog_. I never realized that you only ever wear one colour until I opened the storage trunk Dain gave us. It was like looking into a box full of leaves from Naboo.”

“I wear brown with it,” objected Chel as she took the bag from him and opened it, pulling the shirt half out. It was softer than her robes, light green and well worn, the colour making the red of her skin come alive. “And blue a bit sometimes.”

“Which makes you look like a _tree_ from Naboo,” said Valentii.

Chel shut her eyes and pressed the fabric to her face - the smell of vacuum-packed ship storage, washed in a sonic instead of in water, a hint of real dirt and dry grass from Daqa. It had been almost two years since Daqa. She’d liked this tunic, and decided not to wear it in Coruscant’s undercity.

“The rest of it’s being sent over later,” said Valentii as Chel dug deeper into the bag. “I figured I’d bring you the stuff you actually give a shit about now.”

Her ‘lucky’ pair of dice. Her boot knife, distinguished from standard Jedi supplies by the scuff on the handle. The vibroblade she'd traded with Oh-Six, his designation number etched into the blade. The sheath for her saber so that she wouldn’t have to let the hilt dangle from her belt by the clip. Her blasters, just as clean as she’d left them, carefully placed in their holsters between the shirt and the pants.

Chel hugged Valentii without warning, letting her empathy push her gratitude straight into his awareness.

Valentii laughed as he awkwardly returned the hug - more relief, his worry still intensely present but no longer quite so high strung. “What happened to no public displays of attachment?” he teased.

“You just handed me a whole bag of attachment right in the front hall of the Jedi Temple,” said Chel as she stepped back with a small smile. The bag also contained a packet of his favourite sweets, and she threw it at him gently. “Ass.”

He fumbled to catch it, his civilian reflexes slow compared to the trained Jedi Chel had been spending time with. It dulled his second wave of relief, and Chel was grateful. With him, it was nice to pretend - for a few minutes at least - that things were the way they were supposed to be.

“I’ll see you in ten, then?” asked Valentii expectantly once he’d pulled the packet open.

Chel hesitated, her smile fading. Leaving the Temple would mean getting closer to the rest of Coruscant - the cloud of the wars reaching down from the sky, the darkness of the undercity reaching up, the untouchable slavers on their doorstep.

“Is something wrong?” asked Valentii, his concern finally making it all the way into his expression.

“No,” said Chel, shaking her head as she decided that getting drunk with him in the yellow light of a cantina surrounded by the presence of _normal_ people would be worth it. “It might take an extra five while I collect the stipend, is all.”

“I’ll be here,” said Valentii, leaning back against the pillar nearest them and throwing two of the sweets in his mouth. “Making faces at younglings.”

Chel made it to her quarters in record time, struggling out of her Jedi robes as fast as she could to get the itching texture away from her skin. Once her own clothes were on she paused to shut her eyes, appreciating the way the sleeves were shorter, that the shirt wasn’t layered, that its softness didn’t irritate her sensitive Zeltron skin. 

Dain had insisted that her clothing at least nod towards proper Jedi attire, and so the shirt was tunic length and crossed in the front. Chel had always left it slightly too open, and now she breathed deep. She hadn’t realized that the Jedi robes had been so stifling.

The world felt safer with her saber properly sheathed at her back and a blaster on each thigh, her pants thicker and more practical than the ones that came with standard Jedi robes. There was less fabric around her ankles, and her boots were buckled as tightly as she liked for the first time since they’d been given back to her. 

Until now she’d done all of her training barefoot. Now she could train like she intended to ever leave the Temple instead of like a Master too old to go on assignment.

Chel didn’t run through the Temple on the way back, still adjusting to the idea of walking past the entrance and down the Temple steps. The Temple was warm and protective, but now that Valentii had come in, all that Chel could think about was getting out, the Temple almost as stifling as the robes.

“That was definitely longer than fifteen minutes,” complained Valentii when Chel arrived back at the entrance.

“Sorry,” said Chel. “Collecting the stipend took a bit.” She grimaced. “The woman kept trying to… talk to me…” she trailed off, aware of how pathetic the sentence sounded.

“Talking,” said Valentii, nodding slowly and immediately beginning to lead the way out. “Tragic.”

Chel laughed weakly as she followed. He might be worried, but he wasn’t treating her like glass, and she resolved to keep as many details as possible to herself.

Valentii waited until they were in the speeder and on the way to the cantina he’d chosen before he asked the question Chel had been dreading.

“We figured when we hadn’t heard anything for a month that Dain was dead,” he stated, taking the risk of glancing over.

Chel hesitated before nodding, turning her face to look out at Coruscant. They’d already dipped below the skyline, still high enough up that there was plenty of natural light. Normal people lived here, doing normal things, dealing with normal problems, their existence in the Force a blur as they sped past. Chel wondered idly where Tracy lived.

“You holding up okay?” he asked, trying to coax something out of her, as curious as he was concerned.

“Not really,” admitted Chel, resting her forehead against the glass, her fingers coming up to the crystal at her neck. “It’s nice to have my things,” she added.

“I bet,” laughed Valentii. It was a touch strained as he tried to decide whether to press her for more. “You do look better in green.” He hesitated for a long moment, and Chel preemptively cringed and held her breath. “... Can I fix your hair?” he asked tentatively.

It was the last thing Chel had expected him to ask, and she choked on her laugh, a hand coming up to her mouth to cover her snort.

“You look like _shit_ ,” emphasized Valentii.

“Yeah,” agreed Chel, brushing her hair out of her face as she pulled herself away from the window to sit up a little straighter. It still smelled faintly singed.

“Did you cut it with your saber? Can I at least cut off the burned parts?” he continued desperately.

“Yes I did, and no, you can’t,” replied Chel. She was never letting anybody else touch her hair again, no matter how ugly it was when she cut it herself.

“I’m gonna assume that you cut it with your saber for some kind of weird Jedi ritual shit and not just because you’re an idiot,” said Valentii - he’d obviously guessed that she was an idiot.

“Scissors next time,” said Chel with a wry smile. “How are your parents?” she asked, firmly changing the topic and hoping Valentii would catch on.

He did, updating her on the movings of the _Waterdog_ , complaining about the ways the wars had made moving freight difficult and messed with the hyperspace runs. His parents were on the other side of the planet, where the docking fees were cheaper; he’d taken five days to visit Chel and to run errands in the nearby districts.

“It was pretty fucked up, not seeing you and Dain every few months,” he said hesitantly as he parked the speeder. He looked at her for real now that they were stopped, the worry back in full force.

“I know,” said Chel, her eyes fixed on her hands. The more she’d heard about Valentii’s family and the world outside the Temple, the tighter her chest had gotten. “Let’s go,” she said as she heard him take a breath to speak, opening the door and stepping onto the walkway.


	7. Lying for the Republic

The cantina was quiet, as was to be expected of a lazy mid afternoon in the middle of the Standard week, but it was still paralyzingly overwhelming. She couldn’t make eye contact with people she knew in the Temple; here she had to look at least one stranger in the face and speak to them, and her breath started to catch unpleasantly.

For a full year before she’d arrived back at the Temple, almost every stranger she’d met had fully intended to hurt her and enjoy it - and had mostly succeeded. It was impossible not to assume the worst of the people around her, and suddenly she felt dizzy, a hand going down to check if her blaster was easily accessible.

“Chel?” came Valentii’s voice from beside her. She focused on his presence, forcing herself to breathe. “Should we go?” he asked, his worry for her turned to actual fear.

“No,” she said, taking another deep breath. “I want to be here,” she insisted at least half to herself, pulling the credit chip from her pocket. “I want, um…”

“A shot of tsiraki followed by a glass of good Corellian whiskey?” asked Valentii as he gently took the credit chip from Chel’s shaking fingers.

“Sure,” she agreed with an attempt at a smile. “I’ll just…” she gestured vaguely at the booths along one wall.

“That one’s got a view of both doors,” said Valentii, pointing at one booth in particular. It was his nervous habit, not hers, and she used to tease him for it. Now she just nodded and went where he directed without commentary, silently considering whether to adopt the habit for herself.

Once sitting in the booth, Chel shut her eyes and put her elbows on the table, head in her hands. She’d reflexively snapped her ambient empathy as closed as possible, and her experience of her Zeltron heritage was so closely entwined with her training as a Jedi that her awareness of the people around in the Force had gone with it. Slowly, she breathed them both back open, easing the uncomfortable mental tension and cautiously assessing her situation.

The human bartender was bored and resentful, but it wasn’t malicious. There was a Caamasi woman who had seen them come in, but her curiosity swiftly waned when Chel did nothing interesting. Two human men sat closer than Chel would have liked, but they were so involved in their mundane discussion of speeder bike mechanics that they hadn’t even noticed Valentii and Chel arrive.

Outside the cantina was the deep, complex hum of the emotions on the street, vaguely uncomfortable and crowding if she focused on it, but familiar and harmless otherwise, the same as it had been in the speeder. The horrific whisper of the undercity was there underneath it all, the anxiety of the wars quietly pressing down - Chel suspected that within a drink or three it would all be ignorable.

When Valentii approached the table, Chel ran a hand over her face and looked up with a wan smile. Before he could say anything, she reached up and relieved him of the shot glass, downing it before he’d even sat.

“Feeling a bit better then,” he laughed, sliding one of the glasses he’d managed to carry between the fingers of one hand across the table to her.

Chel immediately took a sip, the relative smoothness of the whiskey clearing some of the tsiraki aftertaste.

“There’s a waitress who’s gonna come by and check in a minute, I said I wasn’t sure if we were staying,” said Valentii, setting the credit chip on the table between them.

“I’m good,” said Chel, taking a deep, still slightly shaky breath followed by another sip of her drink. “I just… haven’t been anywhere like this since…” she shook her head to stop from justifying herself. “I’m good,” she repeated.

“Right,” said Valentii - he didn’t quite believe her, but also wasn’t going to argue. He sipped his drink for the first time as she sipped for her third. “This is like Ryundi, isn’t it?”

“Classified, yeah,” nodded Chel, her eyes focused on the whiskey in her glass as she fiddled with it, ripples bouncing off the sides. Lying for the Republic had lost its sheen of glamour a long time ago, but now it was outright exhausting, and she let herself finish a drink that she should have been sipping for another twenty minutes.

Valentii laughed, lifting the credit chip and holding it where the bartender could see. “Two livers or not, you might genuinely get ahead of me if you keep doing that.”

“Is it a race?” asked Chel with a smile, leaning in on the crutch of a familiar script.

“We should probably celebrate your being alive,” he said, shrugging and smiling back as the waitress approached. He was also grateful for the script.

Chel didn’t bother even trying to look at the waitress, eyes aimed down at the table, letting Valentii order for her. The waitress was less resentful than the bartender, though her flirting was hardly sincere. A normal person with the normal problem of working a slow shift. Chel took a deep breath when the waitress delivered their drinks and left, glancing after her. She could do this.

“To surviving your master?” Valentii offered, his tsiraki shot lifted, the irreverent toast a calculated risk.

“To my knighthood stipend pity prize,” she corrected, her smile twisted as she lifted hers.

They threw back their shots - even good tsiraki burned on the way down more than Tracy’s cheap rum did, which justified immediately starting in on the much less horrific fizzing blue something Valentii had ordered for her.

“Not bad for a pity prize, really,” said Valentii, looking thoughtfully at his shot glass. “How far can it take us?”

“No idea,” replied Chel. She didn’t observe out loud that that was probably what the woman who’d set up her stipend was trying to talk to her about.

“Bets on bottoming out?” asked Valentii.

Chel thought about it for a moment. “Worth a try,” she shrugged.

At first it was difficult and awkward, their conversation still stilted and painfully one sided. Valentii had far more to offer the conversation, given that he had actually _lived_ for the last year and a half. Chel had spent most of that time struggling to maintain a sense of personhood.

Every now and then conversation would go silent as someone new entered the cantina. Chel would flinch, feel herself go deathly still, and reassess her situation with her eyes on the table and her empathy feeling out their utterly mundane motivations. It was as exhausting as it was infuriating, and if she had been out with someone from the Temple, she would have broken down after the third time it happened, gone back to the Temple, withdrawn to her room, and cried.

Instead she was here with Valentii, who couldn’t go into the Temple, which meant she had to stay out, and so she doggedly insisted she was fine until she snapped at him and he stopped asking.

It was a relief when the alcohol kicked in. It hit her all at once, tearing down any ability she had to stay on constant high alert, dulling the other people in the bar into the nondescript buzz of vague positivity that she remembered. 

The third time she almost spilled one of the drinks on the table, Valentii’s eyes narrowed, and Chel flushed.

“When’s the last time you ate?” he asked - for the three and a half months that she’d been in the Temple, somehow that question hadn’t been asked.

“Ah,” said Chel, flushing deeper as she realized she wasn’t sure of the answer. “Sometime yesterday, I think.”

Valentii sighed, and Chel had never been so glad to see him annoyed with her - his worry was a different flavour now that he could deal with something he understood. “Yeah, we’re not getting drunk tonight. We’ll just get some food and I’ll take you back.”

For a split second Chel considered arguing, but someone entered the cantina and she flinched.

“A couple days from now,” he suggested after she’d taken a minute to breathe. “If you’re up for it.”

“I’ll be up for it,” she insisted. 

Valentii didn’t argue, despite his obvious doubts.

Between the alcohol, the food, and Valentii’s determined attempt to carry the conversation as much as he could, Chel slowly opened up, finding that she had more opinions and commentary than she thought. She agreed that the air on Coruscant was too filthy for any reasonable sentient to tolerate. The Corellian whiskey they were drinking was not, in fact, any good, and probably wasn't Corellian at all. She missed the _Waterdog_. Just enough words to ease some of the tension.

Chel spent the entire next day trying desperately to acclimate herself to people other than Jedi, finding a place in one of the hangars where she could sit out of sight. An hour in she let herself start sipping at the flask Tracy had let her keep indefinitely - just enough to take the edge off.

By the end of the day, Chel wasn’t meticulously investigating the motivations of every person around her - though it was unclear whether that was because of exposure, exhaustion, or the comforting and familiar haze that also helped her sleep.

In the late morning of the next day, Chel was pronounced fit to be back on active duty. Chel responded with silence, her eyes averted, and the healer hesitated.

“To be honest,” she said slowly, sitting herself down in the chair across from Chel, “you’ve been fit for _physical_ duty for a while now.”

Chel’s eyes flickered up.

“The mind healer you’ve been seeing asked me to put it off, if I could,” the healer continued. She looked beyond tired, running a hand down her face, her emotions shifting between frustration, regret, and resignation. She’d never asked for this responsibility. “I’m willing to stretch a little, since whether someone is put on active duty should really still be up to their discretion, but I’m not willing to lie.”

“I appreciate it,” said Chel quietly after a long pause to think.

“They’ll be after you in a few days,” said the healer. She tapped her knee the way she always did when she wanted to touch Chel and needed a thing to do with her hands to avoid it. “May the Force be with you.”

Chel half-heartedly smiled back. The familiar phrase felt damning.

The mind healer in the afternoon was furious, though she hid it well on the outside. Chel was grateful when the session was over. If nothing else, the mind healer had been relieved to hear about Valentii - something about connections that weren't based on proximity.

She was ready for him when he arrived, waiting right at the very edge of the Temple boundary instead of letting him walk through into the entry hall. When he asked if she wanted to go to the same place as before, she told him that she wanted to be able to see the sky.

“Such as it is,” he grumbled as he searched the holonet for the least expensive surface bar. “Smog’s as good as another roof.”

Tucked away at a corner table half behind a fake flower decoration forcing distance between themselves and other patrons, Chel insisted they start with two rounds of shots and managed to flinch less than she had two days before.

By Valentii’s third bottled drink things were close enough to normal that he’d begun talking about his current boyfriend, and Chel let him carry on, happy to just listen, occasionally nodding along. Eventually he caught on, and he drunkenly insisted that they trade stories instead of just inflicting his drama on her.

Having thought about it in the days between their first outing and now, Chel had realized her quiet living in the Temple wasn’t as empty as she’d thought. She told Valentii about Hayda and his bid to escape the war by joining the Temple healers, Righ’s head injury that a bacta tank couldn’t fix, Tracy and her coworkers in the hangar, the internal politics of the bombing, Ashlyn’s master and potential knighthood, everything she could think of that wasn’t about herself, speaking more words than she had in weeks.

“Gossipy bunch, ain’t they?” observed Valentii disapprovingly.

Chel pulled at her drink before she laughed. “Unbelievably.”

“Ain’t there some kind of Jedi rule about -”

“There’s a Jedi rule for everything,” interrupted Chel in a sudden flash of bitter resentment.

Valentii blinked and sat back with surprise. 

“What?” snapped Chel, her resentment now misplaced.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you actually complain about the Order, ‘s all,” he explained carefully. “Normally I poke fun and y’get snippy as ‘spit.”

“Yeah,” said Chel, sipping her drink and staring at the table. “Well.”

The effort it took for him to rein in his curiosity and concern was monumental, and Chel glanced up, letting herself smile at his expression. He scowled - he’d long ago learned how to tell when she was getting an easy read on the emotions he was trying to keep to himself. He only still bothered even trying when he was drunk.

They didn’t talk about the Jedi Order again, discussing everything around it instead. They relocated to a different bar three times: once when Chel went stiff and stopped properly breathing at the entrance of a new patron, once when Valentii insulted a bartender so thoroughly the prices of their drinks doubled, and once just because they could.

At Oh-Ten Standard the next morning, Chel awoke curled on the floor of a small hotel room. At some point that she couldn’t quite remember, she’d decided it was a good idea to have one of her blasters out and under her fingers while she slept. She’d gotten used to waking up with all the effects of a hangover and had been used to the stiffness in her back for far longer - but having the blaster out was new.

The undercity was so _close_.

“Val?” she asked, her voice small and tentative in the darkness of the room. 

He grunted in response, the sound coming from above her where he lay in the bed.

Chel paused for so long that she could tell he was dozing back off. “Ryundi didn’t take place on Ryundi,” she said quietly.

“What?” he asked, so confused that Chel wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

“The classified assignment on Ryundi,” she said. “The one I can’t talk about. It happened on Tevith.”

There was silence from Valentii, but he was more awake than he was before, paying rapt attention.

Chel took a deep breath. “Meeting with a local warlord to get them on board with fighting the Seps. Bribing them before the Seps could, basically. Which went…” she sighed. “Predictably. And the mission on, I think we said it was Hyril VI - I don’t know why Dain chose an ice planet for the cover story, we both had tan lines for months…” she paused. “Probably she _wanted_ someone to ask questions, actually…” Chel paused again, savoring the way she felt both dirty and free. “Anyway, that was on Dafo, and -”

“You shouldn’t be telling me this,” interrupted Valentii. “This is so - you really shouldn’t be telling me any of this, this could get you in serious trouble -”

“What’re they gonna do,” scoffed Chel, feeling almost giddy as her thoughts drifted to Barriss, Tano, and Republic prison cells. “Leave me to rot in a pleasure house for a year?”

“ _What the fuck_ ,” snarled Valentii. She heard him jolt up in the bed. “That’s not fucking _funny_ , you can’t just -”

She curled in tighter on herself, drawing her knees a little closer to her chest, only realizing that she was shaking after he’d raised his voice and cut her off.

“Shit,” he said as he caught sight of her, radiating horror. “ _Shit_ , Chel, is that what happened?”

Chel nodded minutely, her eyes shut and her hands against her face.

“And you just - I just spent the last twelve hours _complaining about my boyfriend_ ,” he objected.

“Yeah,” said Chel, the tightness in her chest resolving some as she felt herself almost smile. “I think you’re being kinda hard on him.”

There was a moment of stunned silence as Valentii tried to reconcile what she’d just said with what had come before.

“Konna sounds nice,” added Chel after a deep breath.

“So,” said Valentii after another long silence. “You don’t… want to talk about it, or... something?”

“All I ever do is talk about it,” she replied, her misery making it all the way into her voice for the first time.

“Okay,” said Valentii. She heard him fall back into the bed and exhale deeply. “Okay,” he repeated. 

There was a long, awkward moment of quiet as Chel felt him collect himself, sifting through his own emotions and settling on some combination of fury and disbelief.

“What the fuck,” he whispered to himself.

The words were so intensely understated that Chel coughed out a laugh.

“So,” she said weakly several minutes later into his confused silence, “did we manage to drink the whole stipend?”

“Oh, ages ago,” said Valentii, grasping onto the changed topic and holding onto it for dear life. “My parents are gonna fucking _slaughter_ me.”

“Find a way to make it my fault,” suggested Chel, staring at her hands. “I’m pathetic, they can’t get angry at me.”

“I’m not sure ‘Chel’s pathetic’ is really a good excuse for ‘we drank away an entire Jedi Knight’s monthly stipend and then kept goin’ on your credit chip’,” replied Valentii with a tragic sigh.

“... Do you think they’d object to breakfast?” asked Chel hopefully.

“‘Chel’s pathetic’ is a pretty good excuse for breakfast,” said Valentii after a brief moment of thought. “So we may as well take the risk.”


	8. Throwing People Away

Four days after Valentii was gone, Chel was confused to be summoned before the High Council - she’d assumed that she was once again beneath notice, and that her first field mission would be a soft one assigned by one of the lower councils. 

Chel spent the night breathless and adrift on her couch, hugging her knees in anxiety, repeatedly checking the crystal at her neck. There was the faintest hum in the Force when she touched it, a familiarity she associated with Dain. It kept her comforted enough to avoid pulling out Tracy’s flask - going to see the High Council while hungover didn’t seem like a good idea.

Walking upward through the Temple in the morning took her past the meditation garden where she’d been meeting the others for breakfast; she paused outside it, listening for the voices of Hayda, Righ, and Ashlyn. They weren’t there, the breakfast meeting either broken or already done for the day.

Chel sighed and kept walking.

Just outside the Council chamber, Chel stopped short. Anakin _fucking_ Skywalker, the Chosen one, former apprentice of Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man who lost his Padawan, famous war hero - _in_ famous war _monger_ \- and, admittedly less importantly, disputed winner of the 273rd Annual Open-Form Padawan’s Lightsaber Tournament, was in the Council chamber and feeling _far_ too many things for this early in the morning.

“Shit,” she muttered, one hand against the wall to steady herself. “Shit shit shit…”

Chel shut her eyes, put her forehead to the wall, and took a deep breath, tapping the wall with her knuckles to give herself a physical distraction. She was not that important. She was not going to be put on assignment with the notoriously reckless 501st. There was absolutely no way he was actually there for the same assignment as she was. He was going to walk out as she walked in.

She stepped into the Council chamber and Anakin _fucking_ Skywalker was sitting in a _fucking_ Council seat. Chel was grateful she already spent most of her time with her eyes on the floor - it kept her from openly staring with bewildered hostility. Her gaze flickered up to him and then to Master Windu as if she could silently ask him why the hell he was there.

Windu’s expression was carefully neutral, his emotions tensing in response to her glance, even more unhappy with the situation than she was. She glanced around the chamber at the other masters present - only Mundi and Koon. No Kenobi. No Yoda. Her eyes went back down as she gave a stiff, shallow bow.

“Knight Nerala,” Windu began. “I trust that you are ready for an assignment?”

Chel pursed her lips, bit back every bitter, childish thing that came to mind, and silently nodded her head. There was a minimal response from the Masters; Skywalker emanated mild disapproval. Presumably he’d decided the lack of speaking and eye contact was disrespectful.

“You are not here because the mission is going to be a difficult one,” said Windu. “You are here because the mission would have gone to Knight Dain, and you are to be sent in her stead.”

Chel looked up to briefly study Windu’s face, looking for regret and failing to find it.

“The planet of Kenorlan is under Separatist control, and has been since the beginning of the war,” he explained. “There has been political unrest since long before that time, and now that the war has gone on long enough that the planet is beginning to feel the effects of their alliance with the Separatists on their citizens, the dissidents are gaining support.”

He paused expectantly, and she nodded to indicate that she was listening.

“These dissidents are not Republic sympathizers, and do not want the support of the Republic,” continued Windu. “They have, however, reached out to the Jedi Order - it seems they had some kind of pre-existing relationship with your former Master.” He paused again, waiting for another response. 

She nodded blandly, letting out breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding; this mission was not unlike what she’d done before, and although she wouldn’t have Dain with her, the Zabrak had still managed to pave the way.

“You will be there to support their initial efforts and, ideally, convince them to allow Republic intervention,” said Windu. “This data chip contains information relevant to the mission.” He produced a data chip from his belt, holding it up for her to see when she glanced up. “Do not give the chip to anyone else. Do not connect it to the holonet. And do not,” he looked directly at Skywalker, who scowled, “share the information with your astromech.”

Chel swallowed a laugh at the implication, and then another as a ripple of conflict and dislike ran through the present Council members. _Nobody_ wanted Skywalker there, and the sensation of Jedi Masters struggling to contain their negativity was bitterly satisfying.

“Do you have any questions?” asked Windu exactly as Skywalker opened his mouth to speak.

The words spilled out before Chel could stop them, filled with anxiety bordering on panic. “If things go badly, will you come get me?”

“What?” asked Skywalker incredulously. “Of course we will.”

Chel glanced at him - his brows were furrowed as he tried to parse the situation - and looked at Windu instead, trying desperately to force her expression into something other than anxiety to suggest that she'd asked the question on purpose. Based on his exhausted pity, she failed.

“All missions necessitate risk,” said Master Mundi gently.

“I know,” murmured Chel, eyes going back down, her regret at having spoken transparent. 

“I hardly think that Knight Nerala is unaware of such risks,” said Master Koon - it was just short of an inappropriate reprimand, the lines on his face around his mask tight enough that it must have been digging into his skin. 

“What’s going on?” asked Skywalker in confusion. “Why would we not try to rescue her if something happened?” 

“As a General in this war, I am sure you have observed situations in which a rescue attempt would not be pragmatic,” said Master Mundi - his tone was maddeningly measured, his emotions chillingly serene. 

“We could have done better,” insisted Koon, leaning forward in his chair towards Mundi. His shoulders were strained in a way that signaled how frequently this argument had been repeated. This was about much more than her. “We cannot hold ourselves apart from our mistakes.”

Chel felt herself start to lose her breath - if she’d known she was going to be an object in the middle of this argument again, she wouldn’t have just let herself be hungover. She would have shown up buzzed.

“This is a discussion for the closed council, not this time or place,” said Windu, eyes on Chel, sympathy colouring his emotions in her empathy even as he stoically invoked his authority aloud.

“Why?” demanded Skywalker, his eyes narrowing as he shifted forward in his seat. “What do you have to hide?”

“The conversation was considered closed,” Mundi reminded Windu, pointedly ignoring Skywalker’s outburst.

“Master Kenobi’s absence does not preclude attention to his wisdom,” replied Koon, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in an unconscious imitation of Kenobi’s posture.

“Even if it is not closed, it should be discussed _in private_ ,” insisted Windu, his tone finally slipping from stoicism into frustration.

Skywalker looked to Chel instead of to the other Council members, having given up on getting anything useful out of them. “Why would you even feel like you had to ask?”

Chel stared at him numbly, arms wrapped around herself. She glanced around the room at the silent masters, finishing back on Skywalker. She swallowed. Inexplicably, the idea of telling him the basics didn’t feel utterly revolting - but putting herself on display for the other people in the room again did.

“There was an incident,” said Mundi hesitantly into the heavy silence, “involving slavers.”

“An _incident?_ ” objected Koon, jolting upright in his seat and leaning away from Mundi in apparent revulsion - he was offended on Chel’s behalf.

Chel stared at Mundi in horror, all respect for the master lost.

“Her enslavement deserves more respect than to be referred to so flippantly,” said Windu sharply.

“You were enslaved?” asked Skywalker, now the only person in the room acting as though Chel was present. He was studying her, reassessing her behaviour and recognizing it - her nervous inability to keep her eyes up, her defensive posture, her tendency to avoid speaking to the figures of authority around her. “How long?”

Chel didn’t respond to the question, her eyes flickering between him and the floor. She winced preemptively as his anger, always just below the surface, swiftly began to rise.

“Knight Nerala is not the first to deal with such a situation,” said Mundi. “Nor will she be the last, however we might try to -”

“A year,” interrupted Chel, suddenly realizing that what Skywalker had asked was exactly what the masters had been avoiding.

“A _year?!_ ” Skywalker snarled, surging to his feet. Rage rolled off him in waves, his posture almost feral. His breathing was sharp and short, hands clenched as he struggled with his incredulity and disgust.

Chel’s eyes widened and she took a step back from what she’d provoked, fighting the urge to check her blasters or the hilt of her saber. She’d never been so close to him when he’d lost his temper, though she’d felt it from afar in the Temple. Whatever the masters thought of the unapologetic show of emotion edged in darkness was drowned out, his fury almost blinding in her empathy.

Skywalker glared wildly around the Council until his eyes settled back on her, his expression softening, his anger sputtering out, shifting into grief. There had always been rumors about him growing up as a slave before the Jedi Order found him. Chel had always dismissed them as being baseless gossip, like so many other rumors about the Chosen One. She had been wrong.

“Enough,” snapped Windu, breaking the barely seconds long interaction. He stood, catching Skywalker’s shoulder and pulling him back, holding him in place. Skywalker shot him a dirty look and shrugged his hand off. Windu held out the chip for Chel to take. “You will leave tomorrow. The details for travel will be sent to your quarters.”

Chel took the two steps forward, her knees weak and her eyes on Skywalker instead of Windu.

“I’m sorry they didn’t warn you,” she said softly, close enough that only he and Windu would hear what she said.

He glanced away, half nodding, and when he looked back up his expression had hardened and refocused on Windu. Chel’s eyes flickered after his over to the Master - Windu's neutrality was finally slipping - and took the chip.

They were arguing before the doors were even fully closed, Skywalker’s rising voice drifting out behind her.

“What is _wrong_ with - how could - you’re _throwing people away!_ ”


	9. Losing Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. CLONES.

Chel wasn’t late to the hangar. She was three hours early, wandering down through the Temple in the middle of the night and using her new Jedi Knight pity prize access codes to let herself into the ship. It took her an unreasonable number of tries, leaning against the side of the ship sipping at her bottle, but she had nowhere else to be, and she’d met enough of Tracy’s friends on the night shift that she wasn’t questioned.

The ship was a light transport not meant for overnight travel, and so the seats in the back were utilitarian and uncomfortable. Chel would have sat herself down on the floor in the corner between the wall and the seats anyway, but she appreciated the excuse. Settling into her spot with her head resting against the side of the seats and her knees drawn halfway up, she whiled away time the way she’d learned in slavery: staring at her hands, letting her thoughts drift emptily through a hazy sea of intoxication.

It was nice to have the weight of the bottle to remind her of where she was, to be able to check at her weapons now and then, to make sure she still had the crystal at her neck and her dice in her pocket. Being drunk was better than being drugged by far - she was uncoordinated and nauseous, but she could always still move, and at no point did she ever feel her breathing grow dangerously slow and shallow.

She’d intended to stow the bottle somewhere before anyone else arrived, but she dozed instead, waking up to the feeling of someone removing the bottle from where it sat cradled in her hands against her knees. Chel let it be taken, peering up at Righ, who was staring down with her eyebrows raised.

“Didn’ know you’d be here,” Chel said, her throat dry and her voice feeling detached from her body.

“You didn’t read the dossier,” said Righ, flatly unsurprised.

“Um,” said Chel, rubbing at her eyes. “Well, ’m here, so I must’ve… some of it.”

Righ glanced over her shoulder at the hall, where clones were already walking briskly back and forth, prepping the ship. “This is really fucked,” she said, pursing her lips. “You know this is really fucked, right?”

“I don’t want to go back to the mind healers,” Chel immediately spat.

“Yeah,” said Righ, her fingers tightening on the bottle as she stared at the floor. 

Chel licked her lips, her thoughts slowly catching up as she felt out Righ’s long and guilty hesitation. “... you lied about your symptoms,” she said quietly.

“I feel fine,” Righ snapped. 

It was Chel’s turn to look dubious and unimpressed - though she knew it was less effective coming from someone collapsed on the floor with eyes narrowed against dim lights.

“Look,” said Righ, glancing over her shoulder at the clones a second time. “It’s not like they get grounded for four months when their heads go a bit spotty.”

“Right,” said Chel, following her glance at the clones. Dark green, the colour of the 223rd and the same shade as Righ’s robes. She swallowed down a fresh wave of nausea.

“So just…” Righ hesitated again, her next words coming out in a rush. “Just tell me you don’t have any more, okay?”

“I don’t have any more,” Chel lied, Tracy’s flask heavy in her jacket - Chel had asked her to care for her plant while on assignment, and Tracy had given the flask to her for luck.

Righ stared down at her. She could tell she was lying - she’d been able to tell when Chel was lying since before she could even remember - but Chel held her gaze, completely unapologetic.

“I’ll get rid of this for you,” said Righ after a long silence, stowing the bottle somewhere under her cloak. Chel watched the last third of her bottle go in stoic frustration. “There’s a ‘fresher at the end over there,” she nodded at the end of the tiny room. “You’re lucky the ship’s not any smaller,” she added disapprovingly.

“Thanks,” muttered Chel, eyes back on her hands.

“If you fuck me over, I’ll…” Righ trailed off, unable to think of anything in particular she’d actually do, the threat entirely empty. 

“Yeah,” said Chel with a bitter smile, still not looking up.

After another moment of hesitation, Righ left Chel alone to drag herself up from the floor and stumble into the tiny closet ‘fresher.

She washed her hands, her forearms, and her face, avoiding looking in the mirror as much as she could. She pulled her fingers through her hair as swiftly as possible, thankful for how short it was. The night before, she’d gone at it again with a pair of scissors, something like a fringe cut into the front and the longer pieces trimmed to her jaw - it was even uglier, but also somewhat out of her face and therefore mostly ignorable.

Righ must have found an excuse for her, as the ship started and began moving before she was out of the ‘fresher, kept exactingly on schedule.

Stepping carefully out of the ‘fresher and into the tiny back room, Chel leaned against the wall to steady herself. The door was shut; whatever Righ had said, Chel probably had a few more minutes alone at least. She sat on the uncomfortable seats and set her elbows on her knees, pressing her eyes into the heels of her hands.

Seconds later, the ship left the atmosphere, the artificial gravity kicked in, and Chel threw herself back into the ‘fresher to vomit.

When she exited the ‘fresher for the second time, Righ was waiting for her, datapad in hand.

“For your ‘meditation’,” she said tersely, holding the datapad up for Chel to see what was on the screen - the dossier was pulled up for her to read.

Chel winced guiltily and nodded, which seemed to slightly mollify the other woman. Righ tossed the datapad on the seats and stepped out without another word.

Righ and her master were taking their battalion two systems over from Kenorlan, and Chel was catching a ride. She was allowed to take several clones if she felt she needed them; whether Chel wanted them and whether Righ’s master would discourage it she wasn’t sure. The 223rd itself was being dispatched to directly attack a blockade, and Chel hoped Righ wasn’t stupid enough to put herself in a starfighter while she was still losing time.

The trip to the Destroyer took three hours, and when Chel left her room and stepped into the cockpit Righ shot her a furious look, anger rising off her. She’d obviously expected Chel to spend the entire three hours in the back.

There were only two clones, and while the ship was in hyperspace they had their helmets off and were chatting with Righ. The pilot was older, his armor battered and painted with messy pawprints organized in an artful composition on one side of his chestpiece. His copilot was younger, his armor new and bright white, the only evidence of use the scuffs on his toes. There was a single dark green pawprint on his shoulder that was too perfect; someone in the Battalion must have made a stamp for shinies to use when they joined.

The copilot leapt to his feet and saluted, stuttering something about a general.

Chel looked around the cockpit and glanced over her shoulder.

“ _You_ , Chel,” snapped Righ.

The pilot burst out laughing - he’d sat forward in case he was expected to stand, but hadn’t otherwise moved, and now he sat back and put an ankle on his knee.

“What?” asked Chel stupidly, her thoughts still fuzzy and her head pounding.

Righ glanced at the copilot and gestured for him to sit. “You were promoted when they knighted you,” she said, struggling to contain her frustration. 

“Right,” said Chel after a pause to think it through. She collapsed into the fourth chair. “Well that was a bit of a mistake, wasn’t it?”

“You don’t say,” was Righ’s grumbling response.

The pilot laughed again, but the copilot took a sharp breath - he’d sat back down when Righ had gestured him to, but he was still sitting up ramrod straight. The clones, as was always the case, were _familiar_ , even though she'd definitely never met them. The familiarity had Chel at ease in a way she hadn’t been for well over a year.

“Names, then?” she asked, looking between the two.

“FR-8745,” offered the copilot without a second of hesitation.

Chel blinked at him through her fuzzy thoughts, suddenly unsure of what to say in response to a number. The fact that they weren’t given real names had never sat well with her, but now it made her skin crawl, and she wasn’t certain why.

“Sorry,” said the pilot with a smile. “He won’t let us just name him Uptight,” the shiny glared at him, displaying his first non-nervous emotion, “which I guess is fair enough. I’m Niam.”

This pause was different; Chel looked at the ceiling and snapped her fingers several times.

“Jedi Knight Niam Helnasseau,” she said with a grin, pointing at Niam. “From the Yaldu war.”

“Brilliant pilot and war strategist,” Niam beamed.

“You know that?” asked Righ, frowning. “I don’t remember you paying attention in our history lessons _once_ , you were too busy _fidgeting_.”

“Master Dain had me match up all the important names with their contributions to the duelling arts,” shrugged Chel, ignoring the bitterness that came with mentioning her master. “Or lack thereof, in Helnasseau’s case.”

“Of course,” muttered Righ, rolling her eyes. “You’ve only got one interest in life.”

It occurred to Chel that Righ was also far more at ease around the clones than she had been in the Temple, the posturing she’d engaged in while there now absent. Chel shoved the implications out of her thoughts as hard and fast as she could.

“I’ve expanded,” said Chel with a smile. “Knives and blasters and the like.”

Both clones perked up - their interest in combat was instilled from before their birth, and these clones hadn’t fought the compulsion.

“I didn’t know other Jedi ever learned those kinds of things,” said Niam curiously. “I thought the Commander was an exception, when it came to learning about blasters.”

“Turns out there’s plenty our age,” said Righ. “I didn’t realize until I found out that even Hayda knew how to aim.” She looked thoughtful. “I wonder how the Council feels about that.”

“Like shit, probably,” replied Chel matter-of-factly, too tired and hungover to bother keeping her cynicism to herself. “Only a matter of whether they blame themselves or us.”

There was an uncomfortable pause in which Chel slouched even further down in her chair, lacing her fingers, shutting her eyes, and crossing her ankles with her heels on the floor. Her head _hurt_.

“... or the wars,” said Righ quietly.

Chel opened her eyes to peer at her. She hadn’t expected Righ to engage.

“Like it’s ‘wars’ and not _people_ who make terrible things happen,” she continued bitterly.

There was another awkward pause - Niam wasn’t any more comfortable with this line of conversation than the shiny.

“Like the Seppies aren’t responsible for this whole thing, like the Jedi are to blame for any of it and should be taking any -” continued Righ, gearing up for the argument she’d always had with Hayda.

“The Republic struck first,” interrupted Chel, slowly sitting up. Righ had asked for her opinion months ago, and now Chel had it - or was at least borrowing from Hayda.

“The Seps were building weapons anyway,” said Righ. 

“That doesn’t justify a first strike,” countered Chel.

“So you’d have just waited until the Seps killed Republic citizens so that we’d have the moral high ground?” asked Righ.

The clones had gone very still, watching the back and forth with horror.

“Yes,” said Chel, her response based more on contrarian dislike for Righ than an actual belief.

“They kidnapped Jedi!” snarled Righ.

“And we responded with a full scale assault and a slaughter of Geonosians,” replied Chel, her tone uneven and her eyes narrowed against the light in the ship and Righ’s rising volume. “What kind of peacekeepers are we?”

“They kidnapped the Chosen -”

“He’s only a man,” snapped Chel.

The words resulted in a silent, furious staredown. Chel broke first, sighing deeply, closing her eyes and leaning back with her arms crossed.

“I would have thought you, of all people, would support a rescue mission,” said Righ, radiating her intent to hurt through both a brief cooling in the Force and across Chel’s empathy.

Chel’s eyes snapped open to look at Righ, the near-panic of the shiny and the continuing horror of Niam barely registering as Chel’s breathing went shallow. Righ responded to Chel’s grief stricken expression by swallowing instead of speaking, her regret clear across her face. 

Before any words could be said, Chel stood and walked out of the cockpit to the ‘fresher, the only place on the ship with a lock where she could cry without fear of interruption.


	10. Fighting Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I am successfully uploading on Sundays, but we're coming down to the wire some days, sorry about that. This next chapter will probably need a slightly more thorough edit, which means that hopefully my wife and I will get _ahead_ on doing a last pass instead of leaving it to the last second.
> 
> Also, I want to hawk a pillowfort community! Since you're here reading an OC fanfic, you might like to know that there's a comm for that on pf [right here](https://www.pillowfort.social/community/starwarsocs), and that we've got a discord [right here](https://discordapp.com/invite/52CC8AQ). The discord is active, and the admin of the pf comm is working to get it active again - hence, hawking!

It took Chel an hour and a half to find the room she’d been allocated aboard the Venture. Before her year away, there had only been one type of Venator-class Star Destroyer. The Venture wasn’t just the newer model, but in a larger size bracket, making the interior painfully unfamiliar, a maze of drab grey halls staffed by clones in updated Phase II armor.

The clones seemed to know who she was, given that she was never questioned. She accepted two sets of directions from two different clones, nodding along and completely failing to take in more than three of the necessary turns each time.

There was something uncomfortable about the whole place; even when she’d left, there’d still been a sense of determination from most of the clones. Now, it was easy to tell who was new and who wasn’t before she even saw how painted the armor was - the difference between the blind, Kaminoan bred optimism versus the deep resignation of seasoned soldiers.

Her room was predictably tiny, windowless, and lacked the closet ‘fresher she’d been wistfully hoping for.

Despite the fact that it had been barely five hours since she’d left Coruscant, Chel shut off the light and collapsed onto the narrow bunk. The mattress was typical of almost all ships, just thin enough that Chel could almost feel the metal underneath, reminding her of travelling with Dain on Jedi transports, or catching rides on freighters, or the last time she’d slept on an old-style Venator. 

It was far more comfortable than the too-soft bed she’d been given at the Temple.

Chel curled on her side, her hands on the crystal at her neck, the quiet warmth of the kyber giving her something to focus on other than Tracy’s flask, which she’d left in her jacket hung on the hook on the back of the door. Between the kyber, the hum of life on the ship, the strangely comforting smell of industrial cleaner, and the familiar presence of the clones in the back of her thoughts, Chel managed to doze off.

She dreamed of dying clones and battlefields, a long line of faces all the same and yet so, so distinct, some she knew were dead and some she’d lost track of. At the end were Niam and the still unnamed clone fresh from Kamino on the transport that had brought her to the Venture. The battlefields weren’t all from the Clone Wars; some were from missions with Dain, of civil wars and senseless fighting they'd attempted to stop before the Republic had even had an army.

Chel woke short of breath to the sound of the comm built into the wall chirping. 

She pulled herself upright using the wall, going to where the chirping was emanating from and fumbling around for the button in the pitch dark, thankful it was voice only.

“What?” she asked flatly.

“ _My master wants you on the bridge_ ,” came Righ’s voice - hesitant, almost apologetic.

Chel didn’t respond, letting her forehead rest against the metal wall.

“ _To meet the ranking officers_ ,” Righ clarified hurriedly. “ _In case of emergency. Since you’ll be aboard for a few days._ ”

“Alright,” replied Chel, trying to make her voice a little warmer. “Makes sense.”

“ _Need directions?_ ” asked Righ dryly.

Chel cough-laughed into the mic. “That got to you quick,” she observed, unable to keep the wry smile out of her voice.

“ _You’re new_ ,” replied Righ, her relief at the fact that they were at least still on speaking terms clear. “ _You know how clones are about novelty._ ”

“I’ll get one of them to walk me up,” offered Chel, this smile real.

“ _See you in five._ ”

The first clone she saw she spoke to, and soon she was in a lift up to the bridge. It was an awkward, quiet walk. He’d been pleased when she asked for his name, and it made her skin crawl exactly the way it had on the transport from Coruscant.

Righ’s master had always been an efficient and formal woman, but the years of war had made her sharp and somewhat terse. She gave Chel the briefest of condolences, then launched into the ranks and names of the men and women in front of them, giving Chel the designation numbers of the clones but firmly stating that names were to be used unless pressed by “the bastards back home.”

Then she handed Chel a datapad with important ship information, dismissed everyone who had been part of the “conversation”, and went right back to the hologram she and the Admiral had been focused on when Chel arrived.

“The bastards back home,” repeated Chel after the woman was out of earshot, a half-smile briefly crossing her face.

Righ winced. “She’s gotten a bit… radical, in the last while.”

“She’s not wrong,” replied Chel, moving to the back of the bridge and leaning against the wall to look at the contents of the datapad. Shift times, the meal schedule, gym availability, and a full floorplan of the ship’s interior. “Your master didn’t do this herself, did she?” asked Chel in confusion, looking up at Righ and flipping the hologram on, the floorplan of the ship coming up in three dimensions.

“No way,” was Righ’s response. She grinned at the only clone who had stayed nearby - a captain, given name Carry, who was flatly straight faced. 

“The General had me put together a bit of information for you,” was his response. Chel’s empathy picked up on the personality under the deadpan. He was in on the gossip of his men, and joking at her expense.

“I appreciate it,” said Chel, her smile small but warm. She went back to flicking through the datapad, sighing when she found the hot meals in the schedule and discovered that she’d missed the most recent one by barely twenty minutes.

“I’m sure if you asked they might have something left,” suggested Righ, close enough to see what Chel was looking at.

Righ was radiating guilt and doing her best to shove it down so that Chel wouldn’t notice. Chel eyed her suspiciously, and Righ tensed.

“I think it might be easiest if you’re clear about the General’s order, sir,” offered Carry, his voice kept soft.

Righ glanced at him before nodding Chel into the lift, muttering something about heading to the mess hall as she punched in the code for the appropriate level. Chel leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, watching Righ as the human continued to stare at the floor.

“Commander,” pushed Carry after she’d been silent for too long.

“My master insisted on having access to your file, and decided to keep tabs on you while you’re aboard,” explained Righ, her voice guilt ridden.

Chel stared at the floor. The mind healers had checked up on her much less often by the time she left the Temple, but they had never really stopped, either.

“Not because she thinks you’re going to be a problem,” continued Righ. “Just… in case, y’know?”

“Fair enough,” muttered Chel, eyes still resolutely on the floor as she idly wondered whether or not her file called slavery an ‘incident’ the same way Master Mundi had. 

“One of us’ll be around most of the time,” said Righ, her guilt only intensifying.

Chel looked up, focused on Carry instead of Righ.

“I haven’t read the file,” said Carry, sharp enough to immediately answer the unspoken question. “The General said to look for the same signs of stress as I would in one of the men.”

“You can read it if you want,” replied Chel, looking away and doing her best to make the words come out light instead of churlish. “I don’t care.”

Righ’s temper was prodded by Chel’s response, but before she could respond a pair of clones entered the lift. They were having an animated conversation, and only became more animated when they caught sight of their commander, ribbing her about surviving her ‘vacation’ and welcoming her back.

The unfamiliar sensation of jealousy rose in Chel’s throat as she watched the interaction and felt the aura of excitement from the three. For Righ, leaving the Temple meant going home.

Carry leaned across her and pressed the button for the two of them to get off on the next floor, leaving Righ to catch up with her men.

Chel hadn’t realized how stifling the lift had been until she was out of it, taking a deep breath once she was in the hall. She glanced at Carry behind her before deciding to show ‘signs of stress’, leaning her palms against the wall and hanging her head. 

A month ago Chel’s hair would have hung in a curtain against the side of her face, hiding her expression from Carry. Now that it was cropped short, she was left feeling exposed.

She felt Carry working himself up to speaking, and spoke before he could.

“I still want that food,” she said, pushing away from the wall to look at him. “I haven’t eaten since…” she didn’t finish the sentence as she counted the hours in her head.

“Fastest way is to just wait for the lift again,” said Carry, his relief that she’d spoken first buried under the stoicism.

“I thought so,” replied Chel, pressing the button to call the lift back and then stepping back, hands shoved into her jacket pockets, eyes on the floor.

The silence was awkward as Chel felt Carry slowly growing more and more uncomfortable. Under normal circumstances, she would have removed herself from the situation and let him stew in it, but lacking that option, she spoke.

“It’s not your fault,” she pointed out quietly. “And it’s not Righ’s, either. I don’t blame you for following orders. It’s what good soldiers do.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” replied Carry, the tension between them easing and his discomfort pressing less on her empathy.

All things considered, Carry wasn’t terrible company. His sense of humor was so dry he managed to startle a real laugh out of her, and tried to find ways to distract from the fact that she was being supervised.

Chel was still sick of being watched - first held under observation, then supervised, then tolerating the constant glances of concern from her peers, now escorted like a child around the ship.

She asked Carry to take her to the quietest gym on the ship and ran the slowest, least interesting katas over and over to avoid piquing the interest of any of the clones she shared the gym with. None of them were saber runs, instead pulled from various arts she’d come into contact with during her apprenticeship so that she didn’t have to take out her saber and draw attention to herself.

It only somewhat worked, the novelty of her presence attracting enough watchers that she quit early. 

The next day it was tempting to stay in her bed like she would have in the Temple, but the lack of exercise the day before left her fighting the sensation of itching under her skin. Staying in her room would be interpreted as a ‘sign of stress’ anyway.

Chel still waited to leave until the mess would be between meal times, and didn’t bother looking up from her cold food when Righ joined her.

“What do you want me to say?” asked Righ after a brief silence. She didn’t keep her frustration restrained, all of what Chel felt in her empathy put into her voice.

“I don’t know,” replied Chel, eyes still on military rations she was no longer eating.

There was another pause, and when Righ leaned forward before speaking, Chel braced herself to hear a threat related to her alcohol on the shuttle.

“To be honest,” said Righ quietly, her emotions moving away from frustration with Chel and into frustration directed elsewhere, “I’m not sure this actually has that much to do with you.”

At this Chel’s eyes came up, finding Righ tapping her fingers nervously on the table, dark eyes glancing at the door.

“My Master never liked Knight Dain much,” she finished.

“Master Dain didn’t like her much either,” replied Chel, a wry smile making its way onto her face. “Something about her cynicism and temper.”

Righ laughed softly instead of denying the observations. “Master Moltayne thought Dain was too idealistic to be trusted with a child,” she said.

“She told you that?” asked Chel in surprise, setting her utensil on the side of her plate.

Righ shook her head. “I overheard it a couple years ago,” she explained.

“I wonder if she still thinks so,” said Chel quietly, her eyes back down on her plate.

“Who gives a shit?” asked Righ.

Chel looked up sharply, startled by the vehemence.

“It’s not like it’s got anything to do with us,” said Righ, her shrug forced and awkward but her peace offering sincere.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” replied Chel, her slow, small smile completely genuine.

Righ smiled back, the majority of her frustration bleeding away and replaced with relief.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough, their quiet conversation something resembling the kind of catching up Righ had likely expected when she’d first seen Chel back in the Temple. Twenty minutes in, Chel realized she was genuinely enjoying herself - Valentii was her closest friend, but he wasn’t a Jedi, and while Hayda was kind, he didn’t have as much in common with her as Righ.

Carry joined them halfway through, bringing with him a deck of cards, and Chel found herself learning to play a game invented by the 223rd. The rules were the exact kind of complicated that came from long periods of boredom between planets - apparently when they’d lost their original Venator, their hyperdrive had been hit and they’d been marooned in deep space until they could be rescued.

Chel swiftly came to the conclusion that she wasn’t going to be able to learn the rules in time to win, and settled for a distraction tactic.

“Can't I just order you to let me win?” asked Chel, leaning one elbow on the table to hold up her chin. “Like you said in the transport, I outrank you.”

Righ snorted, her thoughtful focus on her hand of cards interrupted so that she could roll her eyes.

“I’m just saying that you’re really supposed to do as I say,” shrugged Chel, tapping the table with the edge of her cards. She was holding them stacked, not bothering to pretend she particularly cared about the game.

“Experience outranks everything,” replied Righ, her head held high.

“She is right though,” said Carry, as straight faced as ever, his entertainment bubbling just below the surface. “Technically,” he added when Righ shot him an offended look.

“I could tell you to do anything,” said Chel, a smile tugging at her mouth. 

“No, you can’t,” replied Righ - she was swiftly losing patience with the situation. 

“Can’t I?” asked Chel, looking at Carry for support.

Carry shook his head, having caught on that Chel was playing kingmaker and was attempting to set him up for a win. “Datawork, mostly, that sort of thing. You’ll never have to write a mission report again, if you don’t want to.”

“Stop telling her things,” snapped Righ.

Carry looked across the table at Chel, his eyebrows raised.

“I… order you to keep telling me things?” said Chel, unable to keep it from sounding like the question it was.

“Sorry Commander,” said Carry, his laughter masterfully held in. He would be hell to play sabacc against for someone who wasn't an empath. “She outranks you.”

Righ looked like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or seethe, and Chel laughed for her. There was something very satisfying about watching Righ’s conflict - they might have talked through some of their antagonism, but Chel still hadn’t _quite_ forgiven her for what she’d said on the transport.

“Can I make her call me by my rank all the time?” asked Chel, pushing just a little further.

“Technically,” said Carry slowly, allowing Righ time to glare at the use of the word, “she’s supposed to anyway, but Jedi never seem to enforce that between themselves.”

Chel looked Righ directly in the eyes and smirked.

“I’d rather fall to the dark side than call you General,” snapped Righ.

“Strong words,” said Chel.

“Fighting words,” agreed Carry.

Righ looked at Carry with narrowed eyes.

“It would be good for the men to know the two of you are on speaking terms,” said Carry. His face was utterly deadpan, but hope was coming through Chel’s empathy loud and clear.

“That might be better communicated some other way,” replied Righ flatly, successfully holding down her competitive drive.

“I don’t think I’ve sparred with someone since I got back,” offered Chel. It was bait that Righ might go for - if Chel was out of practice, Righ really might have a chance. 

“Alright,” agreed Righ after a fierce internal struggle. “Whoever loses calls the other by rank.”

“Deal,” said Chel with a nod and a half-smile.

“Permission to prep the nearest gym, sir?” asked Carry - it wasn’t lost on Chel that when it mattered in the slightest, Carry went to Righ first.

“Absolutely,” replied Righ, her grin competitive now that she had a way to potentially put Chel down.

The walk without Carry was largely silent, though the anticipation kept it from being as awkward as it could have been.

“This loss is going to be rather public,” said Righ when they were almost at the gym. It was phrased as trash talk, but meant as a mildly concerned warning. 

Chel looked at her in surprise, the thoughtful awareness of her situation unexpected. Chel’s eyes went to the floor, her smile small and sad. “It’s different when it’s clones.”


	11. Against Regulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a couple chapters there I forgot to add the chapter titles in. Fixed now. (How embarrassing.)

Stepping into the gym took Chel’s breath away, the sensation of being the focus of male shouts and laughter at once disgusting and exhilarating. She hadn’t been lying when she said it wasn’t the same. Whatever her previous situation had been - Chel shoved the nausea down as hard as she could and refused to think about it - this one was _fundamentally_ different.

The clones sang in the Force in a way most beings didn’t, their collective presence all complementary harmonies of thought instead of the cacophony of most groups of sentients. In situations like these there would be the occasional note of discord, a disagreement that distinguished individuals in a way that Chel had always liked. 

Righ laughed, just as able to feel that tension as Chel was. What Righ couldn’t feel were the details of the clones’ emotions. These were not a harmony, these were excitement and hope and anxiety and doubt and discomfort. 

They didn’t particularly _dislike_ Chel - there’d hardly been time for that - but the gossip that had spread about her had been the argument she’d had with Righ in the transport, not the quiet conversation in the mess hall. Not all battalions had a close relationship with their Jedi, but it wasn’t uncommon for padawans to make a deeper connection, and these clones _loved_ Righ.

Chel looked at the other woman, and her smile was genuine when Righ caught her eye. The fondness she felt was largely borrowed from the atmosphere of the clones, but she didn’t bother fighting it. It felt _good_.

Carry shouted for order amongst the chaos, and eventually he got it - though given the security of anonymity there was no shortage of sarcastic “yessir”’s from the back.

“There’s been a bit of a disagreement,” started Carry, and the room went truly quiet. “About rank,” he continued, and the relief was palpable, replaced by confusion. “General Nerala thinks the Commander isn’t properly following regulation.”

This resulted in a ripple of laughter, and Chel encouraged it by acknowledging the irony with the laziest salute she could manage. Righ’s scoff was audible, and the laughter that followed was much louder and accompanied by heckles.

“Now I’ve heard it’s undignified for a Jedi to wrestle,” said Carry, taking a jab at Righ’s master. It was Righ who hooted a response to this one; Carry was good at this, his utter deadpan making every reaction seem much more extreme than it actually was. “But it turns out playing with swords is fine, so we’ll just all have to manage with a duel instead.”

This was exciting enough to elicit an actual _applause_. Righ and her master apparently didn’t spar much in front of the clones, and odds were good it was light, not a real competition. The clones could feel the difference.

Carry called for order a second time - this time the collection of “yessir”’s from the back was almost a musical chorus - before laying out the stakes. “The General wins, the Commander’s gotta call her by rank and vice versa. Plus -” Righ and Chel were suddenly sharing a concerned look - “they’ve gotta do all of the other’s datawork.”

“That’s not so bad,” murmured Chel.

“Have you ever had to fill out forms for three hours?” muttered Righ back, her resentment clear.

“Don’t forget!” finished Carry, “gambling’s against regulations!”

Based on the laughter and outright jeering, this joke was self deprecating, and Chel laughed along with everyone else to ease the collective nervousness about the banned hobby. It had been Carry’s indirect way of asking for permission.

Righ walked to her end of the mat, shrugging off her cloak and dropping it just outside the boundaries of the ring. Chel did the same, the removal of her jacket inherently less dramatic. Righ set herself into an opening stance: feet spread apart, leaning in with her free hand against her chest, her green saber held out behind her and angled upright. Niman. Either she’d justifiably dropped any real focus on swordplay in the years since they’d last sparred - she’d always been a far better pilot anyway, and that was actually relevant to her life - or she had a strategy in mind.

Chel didn’t immediately fall into a stance or light her saber. Instead she looked to Carry, calling out into the relative quiet that had fallen. “So what are the rules?”

“I change my mind!” came a voice from the crowd. “I want to put my money on the cheater!”

“No deliberate maiming,” shouted Righ over the laughter and arguing, her grin good natured.

“But accidental maiming is fine, got it,” replied Chel, grinning back and raising her saber. She lit it for exactly long enough to perform an exactingly perfect Makashi salute, a hand behind her back and her saber held vertically in front of her face. Through the purple light of her blade, she could see Righ’s eyes flash with insult at the silent taunt, and Chel pushed it further by completing the standard flourish, spinning her saber down and to the side, the blade flickering.

Then Chel raised her saber, holding it two handed behind her head, the tip angled downward. She spread her feet ever so slightly - there was shouting amongst the clones as they recognized the altered opening Djem So stance of the legendary General Anakin Skywalker. Righ caught on, her insult turned to a smile as she matched Chel’s imitation Skywalker with an imitation General Kenobi, her right hand held out before her and her saber now angled forward. 

They might be taking the duel seriously, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t put on a bit of a show for the clones. 

“Three!” called out Carry, backing out of the ring.

Righ shifted her stance, a tell that revealed her discomfort with the opening style she’d chosen.

“Two!”

Chel was grateful that the clones had started to settle into tense anticipation. It was easier to ignore, and once she’d begun to ignore them, the easier it would be to keep ignoring them when they started up again.

“One!”

Utter silence.

“Go!”

Chel was polite, and waited until the word left Carry’s lips before moving. 

It started as expected, with Chel charging forward and Righ holding a defensive line.

Chel extinguished her saber, and her charge was turned into a foot first slide across the floor. It took her right under Righ’s defense, and on her way past Chel grabbed her ankle, yanking it out from under her.

Righ gasped but immediately recovered, rolling in midair to land on her feet and thrust her saber forward.

Ataru. Good. Mixed forms made for a far more interesting fight.

There was just enough momentum from the slide for Chel to ride it back to her feet, lighting her saber in time to parry Righ’s thrust and then step back, parry again and step back, trying to lead her around the ring.

Instead of taking the bait, Righ thrust forward with her open palm instead of with her saber, using the Force to push Chel across the floor. Chel let her shoulder hit the mat and rolled back to her feet, her saber easily up in time to cross with Righ’s attack.

Briefly they sparred like they were running katas together, step for practiced step, Righ’s saber a consistent hum and Chel’s saber occasionally stuttering. Righ led, choosing things she knew the clones would recognize - dimly Chel heard a roar of approval as she dodged dramatically over Righ’s strike.

They ended circling and panting, Righ’s breathing lighter than Chel’s.

“Piece of shit,” gasped Chel as she realized that Righ had been deliberately wearing her out on flash. She snapped her saber off, holding the hilt behind herself where Righ couldn’t see her flip her saber over to aim the emitter in the opposite direction, reversing her grip. It was a shame her Jar’Kai was still shaky and would never be good enough to justify a second saber - Tano’s showy bladework would likely have been recognized by the clones.

“I didn’t think you’d fall for it,” taunted Righ with a grin - Chel’s empathy told her that Righ knew enough to be wary despite her outward appearance. “You really _haven’t_ sparred in a while.”

“Is that why you gave me time to catch my breath?” laughed Chel as they continued to circle, ignoring the heckling of the clones. “Pity?”

“You’ll be tired either way,” shrugged Righ.

Someone shouted something that Chel couldn’t make out, and Righ was suddenly the one on the offensive.

Chel kept her saber off for as long as possible, blocking Righ’s overhand strike from below and letting the power of it push her down. The reverse grip meant that when she shifted to the side her blade wasn’t in the way of her vicious upward punch, her fist making contact with Righ’s stomach to knock the wind out of her.

As she moved Chel shifted the angle of her saber so that the tip pointed down, forcing Righ to stumble as their sabers slipped out of the lock. Chel put out her saber to release the pressure against Righ’s entirely, backing out of Righ’s range on light feet and leaving her to fall to the ground with a gasping yelp.

The move resulted in both cheers and boos. A Jedi fighting dirty was a confusing novelty.

Chel pressed her advantage, intending to pummel downwards with her saber - but Righ had the wherewithal to reach out with two pointed fingers and slash through the air, an invisible strike in the Force. Chel’s eyes widened as she desperately broke her movement, trying to avoid being smacked so hard on the side of her head that she went sprawling.

She managed, throwing herself backwards like she might fall, catching herself on her palms and springing over herself to the other side of the ring with her saber off. It was closer than she expected - almost a hit, and surprising enough that Chel accidentally gave Righ time to scramble to her feet.

Righ repeated the gesture several times in different directions, capable of maintaining the focus necessary despite her pain. It held Chel off as she focused on Righ’s movements, learning to dodge the Force strikes using a combination of the Force and falling, smooth side steps.

The second Chel understood how to move through the defense she sprang forward, launching herself up and over Righ’s head, switching her grip on her saber from a reverse to a forward. She lit the blade as she fell, and Righ only just managed to raise her saber in time to block - Chel extinguished her blade, relighting it just below Righ’s guard.

Righ would have shouted in her surprise if she wasn’t still winded. She managed to stumble back, her hair sizzling in the minor heat of the training power. She barely managed to parry Chel’s next attack, on the defensive in a way that she hadn’t been before.

This wasn’t like their earlier run of saber crossing, wasn’t like running katas. Now Chel was playing to _win_.

The flickering of her saber was no longer a side effect of her saber’s odd construction. Now it was on purpose, a direct and unyielding method of getting under and around Righ’s defenses. Righ’s movements were increasingly desperate, but the fact that she didn’t fall for most of Chel’s feints gave away the fact that she wasn’t as hard done by as she looked.

It wasn’t long before Chel spotted an opening to pin Righ down and finish the duel. She extinguished her saber and dropped the hilt from her right hand to her left -

Righ pushed the hilt away with the Force as fiercely as she could, her eyes lit with success. Chel reached out to call her saber straight back - this wasn’t the first time someone had pulled this trick - and Righ grabbed her wrist, dug her nails in, and twisted, the pain distracting Chel for long enough that her saber rolled out of the ring.

Chel rolled into the momentum of Righ’s twist to relieve the pain, fully intending to reach out for her saber a second time. Righ whipped her saber around in a tight, ungraceful circle, aiming for Chel’s arm, knowing that the burn she would inflict would count as an automatic yield.

Without thinking Chel drew Oh-Six’s knife and aimed to parry Righ’s saber at the hilt - remembering at the last second not to engage the vibro and really damage Righ’s saber. Her aim was true, the edge of the blade sinking into the hilt’s grip, and Chel yanked hard. Righ was forced to let go of either Chel or her saber, and she made the obvious choice to let go of Chel.

The clones _roared_ with approval at the sight of one of their own weapons being used to effectively counter a lightsaber. 

Righ gaped at the absurdity of the successful move, and Chel took advantage of the moment to draw her saber back to hand. The smack as the hilt struck her palm was usually so minor that Chel didn’t even feel it, but Righ had done enough damage to her wrist that it was jarring and painful to the degree that she almost dropped the hilt. She resheathed the knife and switched her saber hand, trying to make the movement look casual.

They circled, both of them panting and covered in sweat.

“What the fuck,” sputtered Righ, still in fierce pain from the punch she’d taken to the gut.

“You said no rules,” replied Chel, her laugh weak and pitiful from exhaustion, choosing to keep the fact that it hadn’t been calculated to herself.

When their sabers crossed again, it was obvious that from this point forward it was a war of attrition. There were no more flips, no more flashy moves, no more violent slashes of the Force through the air. They were relying less on their own skill and more on the desperation of their opponent - here Chel had the advantage, and they both knew it. Righ either had to come up with something quick, or she was finished.

Chel saw Righ start to draw her fingers in a line to lash out using the Force, moving from right to left. Chel took the opening it left in Righ’s saber defense, dodging the way she’d learned from earlier in the duel. She put out her saber and relit it on the other side of Righ’s blade - and was struck viciously in the side by a push from the Force that came not from right to left, but from left to right.

It threw Chel to the ground, and Chel just barely managed to hook her foot around Righ’s ankle to take the human with her.

There was a brief scuffle as they both tried to overpower the other or disengage at turns until the moment when Righ almost had Chel pinned down.

The sensation of being straddled at the hips, the sight of a person above her, and the sound of men shouting all around made Chel freeze and stop breathing for just long enough that Righ managed to get her saber at her throat. When Chel came back into herself a second later, she’d already drawn one of her blasters and jammed it into Righ’s ribs.

It was standard regulation that all weapons carried on the ship were to be kept set to stun, and that was one of the regulations Chel respected. Now, staring up at her friend, she prayed nobody had noticed her flip the switch.

“It’ll be a draw, then,” panted Righ with a grin. Chel could barely hear her over the yelling and shouting of approval and excitement from the watchers - other staff had joined the clones, and Righ’s master was hovering somewhere near the door, struggling to hold in pride. 

“Yeah,” said Chel, managing to summon something like a smile. 

Righ extinguished her saber, and Chel holstered her blaster as the other woman stood.

“General,” Righ offered, holding out a hand.

Chel took it and let Righ haul her to her feet, trying to collect herself enough to fake her way through the next fifteen minutes. “Commander,” she replied, shifting the way their hands were together so that they were properly clasped in friendship.

After that things were a blur, all congratulations, pleas that she duel Righ again tomorrow, questions about her GAR-issue vibroblade and the name associated with the designation number on the blade. Her responses were terse and her smiles half hearted, while Righ’s were exuberant and chattery, and swiftly the clones’ focus was largely on the human. 

The second there was an opportunity, Chel slipped away.


	12. Just People

Military medical staff had a reputation for being skilled but pushy and, in Chel’s experience, that reputation was well deserved. It didn’t matter that her wrist was likely sprained; the last thing she wanted in the galaxy was to be touched, much less _handled_ , and so Chel ducked through the first side door she saw.

It was a storage room filled with racks of spare armor, and as she swiftly made her way to the farthest corner of the room, the empty eyes of the unpainted Phase II helmets watched her pass, skull-like in the dim light.

Chel didn’t make it all the way down the center aisle, her shaking legs almost giving out two thirds of the way down. She caught herself on one of the shelving units, gripping it tight with her good hand and holding onto it for stability as she stumbled her way to the wall behind the shelves, still panting as she leaned against it and slid to the floor.

Holding her injured wrist to her chest and pulling her knees in close, Chel shut her eyes and desperately tried to get a handle on her breathing, forcing herself to fill her lungs more than halfway. The second she began to find control, she felt her chest begin to tighten again, and she was fighting sobs instead of panic.

Just before she gave in, the door at the end of the room hissed open.

“General?” called a clone hesitantly from the door. 

The combination of being stared at by shouting men for the entire duel and ending it pinned on her back meant that being addressed by a male voice made Chel want to vomit - but it was also a clone’s voice, and the familiarity was enough to help her choke it down. 

“I’ve got your coat,” he said as he began to walk down the center aisle, radiating admiration, pleased anticipation - and increasing concern.

She reached out for him with her empathy, doing her best to pull on his much less panicked emotions enough to give her some kind of anchor outside herself. It didn’t work nearly as well as it did with Valentii, but it was enough stability to get her through a conversation.

He rounded the corner before she began to stand, and there was an awkward silence as he caught her huddled on the floor. Looking up at him was yet another thing that was unpleasant in ways that she chose to ignore, and she unfolded herself, grabbing the shelf and using it to haul herself unsteadily to her feet.

“I just...” she said weakly as she moved, pausing to wince as her right wrist was jostled, “just needed a bit of quiet.”

“Dav’s like that,” said the clone - he sounded younger than she expected, another shiny with a dark green paw print stamped on his shoulder. 

“Oh yeah?” asked Chel, not so much interested in the answer as following the script of polite conversation.

“Something about loud noises,” explained the clone. “He couldn’t come see the duel. We’re gonna find out if someone in the front got a good holo.”

Chel couldn’t quite summon a proper response, and held out her left hand for her coat. It took the clone a moment to understand what she wanted, staring at her as his excitement at speaking to a Jedi General devolved into confusion. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly as he handed over her coat. The weight of Tracy’s flask made her hand drop - she’d almost forgotten it was there. Now that she was aware of it, the appeal of it was unbearable.

Without thinking she went to shift her coat from her hand to the crook of her arm, but the movement required her right hand, and she grimaced as pain shot through her wrist.

“You should probably have that looked at,” said the clone with a frown.

“I know,” replied Chel, her eyes on her hands as she successfully manipulated the coat into the place she wanted on her arm. 

“I could show you the way, if you want,” the clone offered.

Chel shut her eyes and took a breath in order to crush the sudden overwhelming wave of resentment at his presence. “Alright,” she said once she let her breath back out.

The walk was silent, the clone’s disappointment with her growing with every step. It pressed against her, an added weight on the numbness she’d fallen back on to avoid thinking about how dirty she felt.

It wasn’t the main medbay that the clone took her to, but a smaller, closer one - Chel’s wrist didn’t merit the same attention that Righ’s stomach did, and the main medbay would be swarming with people. The space was small, white, and staffed exclusively by a fussy floating medical droid.

Since returning to the Temple, Chel had spent a great deal of time learning how to tolerate the unwanted touch of medical staff, and so she let the droid manipulate her wrist without complaint, her face turned away, eyes on the med bay cot she sat on. She was thankful it was a droid, the metal of its fingers far easier to bear than the warmth of another sentient being’s skin.

It asked her bland questions in its modulated voice, and she gave it terse, one word answers. It wasn’t supposed to give her the wrist wrap that contained bacta, as it also contained a topical painkiller that would give her a rash. She nodded in acknowledgement without looking up. It suggested that as the rash associated with this painkiller was non-lethal, it might override the stop. She shrugged. It offered to give her a list of resources to help her mental state. She shook her head.

After the droid was done, Chel slowly pulled on her coat, working her injured wrist through the sleeve with care to avoid jostling it. The lack of bacta or painkillers would leave it painful for at least a week, and her thoughts drifted to Righ in the proper medbay. Even if nobody had seen what she’d done - doubtful - she felt compulsed to tell the other woman. 

“About what the droid said,” came the hesitant voice of the clone.

Chel had been staring at her wrapped wrist, and now she looked up at the clone. He’d been thoughtful enough to suggest the smaller medbay, but not thoughtful enough to leave when they’d arrived; it was almost childish, the way he wanted her to prove his disappointment wrong.

“There’s a group of the boys that -”

“No,” Chel interrupted sharply, the nausea rearing its head.

The clone started back at her response. “Sorry sir,” he said, fear written across his face and radiating in Chel’s empathy. “I just thought maybe -”

“I’m not talking about it with a bunch of _men_ ,” Chel snarled. Her entire body tensed, exacerbating the throbbing in her wrist.

“... Oh,” said the clone, his eyes wide, confusion joining his fear - he didn’t entirely comprehend what her statement implied.

Chel repeated her moment of resentment in the storage room, eyes shut and breathing deep. There was something about this clone that was different from the others she’d spent time with - his emotions were simple but volatile. Even the shiny on the transport to the _Ventur_ e hadn’t been like this.

“I’m sorry,” she said once she’d gotten control of her breathing. “What’s your name?” she asked, guilt swelling amongst the resentment as she realized she still hadn’t asked.

“Kit,” offered the clone. “Sir.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Chel sighed. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Excuse me for saying, sir,” said Kit cautiously - Chel had never met a clone who was so fast to rebound from something that even _smelled_ like a reprimand - “but Jedi aren’t much like what we were told on Kamino.”

The underlying emotion of the statement made it obvious that he wasn’t just referring to Chel, but also to the other Jedi on the ship. None of them behaved the way the galaxy at large believed Jedi should; aside from herself, Moltayne was too sharp, Righ was too impulsive, and both were too short tempered. 

“We’re just people,” replied Chel gently, a small smile managing to make its way to her face as she thought of the first time Dain had said the same thing to her. It had been the first time they’d returned to the Temple after she’d been apprenticed; Chel had been twelve, and just old enough to start understanding the dissonance between the ideals of the Code and the often unfortunate truths her empathy told her about the Jedi she was surrounded by.

The memory was far more bitter than sweet.

“I suppose,” said the clone dubiously, his frown emphasizing the slight roundness in his cheeks. 

Chel’s eyes narrowed as she studied him.

“... How old are you?” she asked, slowly putting together what made him so off-putting.

Kit stiffened. “I’ve been through just as much training as any soldier,” he said defensively, “and so have my batch brothers, so -”

“I didn’t ask about your training,” said Chel, this interruption only marginally less rude than the others. 

“Almost nine, sir,” said Kit resentfully.

Chel’s insides went cold, her eyes widening as the number sunk in.

“You’re a child,” she said softly, unable to stop taking in Kit’s face. 

“I’m just as much of a man as any of my brothers,” snapped Kit.

“When I was eight I hadn’t even been apprenticed yet,” continued Chel, her skin crawling. “I was still playing tag in the gardens, I was still - I never thought -”

Kit scowled, completely misunderstanding Chel’s confusion. “I’m barely a year younger than -”

“You’re a _child_ ,” repeated Chel, the words hardly able to come out as her breath shortened. She began to back away from Kit, using first the cot and then the wall to steady herself. “You’re _children_ and we _sent you to war_.”

“We’re made to serve the Republic,” Kit reminded her.

“Made to serve -” the words cut into Chel like a knife as she continued to press herself against the wall - “you’re _slaves_ ,” she gasped, unable to hear what Kit said next, her ears ringing. “I’m a _slave who owns slaves_.”

The realization came as she felt her hand touch the door’s control panel, and the opportunity to escape sent Chel flying through the halls. All Chel wanted was _out_ , but there was nowhere to go, her room a disgustingly familiar windowless cage with nothing but a bed, the ship filled with ghosts in white armor carrying weapons they hadn’t asked for and sent to fight in a war they hadn’t chosen.

She made for the outside edge of the ship, the vague memory of a place shown to her by Carry the day before the closest thing she could think of to freedom - a conference room with a floor to ceiling window. When she arrived it was empty, and she locked the door behind her, the only light coming from the blue-white streaks of hyperspace and the only sound her ragged panting.

Chel managed to stumble around the conference table to the window, pressing the palm of her left hand to the cool transparisteel, the sensation giving her something to focus on as she slid to the floor. She leaned against it as her panting calmed and numbness set in, spots appearing in front of her eyes from the brightness of hyperspace bare centimeters away.

 _The Jedi are the ones responsible_ , whispered Barriss’ voice in her thoughts. _We have become villains in this conflict -_

“A slave who owns slaves,” she murmured, staring at the place where her fingers left marks in the fog of her breath on the window, her throbbing right wrist cradled against her chest.

_We are the ones who should be put on trial -_

“A slave who…” repeated Chel, the words cut off as her entire body shuddered, self loathing sinking into her skin and the cold of the window beginning to settle into her bones.

_The Republic is failing. It’s only a matter of time..._

This time when she felt the sobs welling up she didn’t fight.


	13. Wonder and Frustration

When Chel felt Righ approach the door, the woman was furious, her completely justified rage spearing into Chel’s empathy. She did her best to brace herself, half-heartedly trying to push herself to standing and away from the smears her tears had left on the window. 

“What were you _thinking?_ ” snarled Righ as she stormed through the door.

Chel’s tried to step away as Righ’s shout joined her fury. Instead she tripped and stumbled back into the corner, the wall and window the only thing that kept her from falling to the floor.

“You almost _killed_ me!” continued Righ, advancing on Chel. 

When Chel tried to answer, she found no words, and shut her eyes to avoid having to look at Righ’s anger as well as feel it.

“Answer me,” snarled Righ, grabbing Chel’s shirt to pull her away from the safety of the wall.

Chel went completely limp, too tired to fight and so instinctively defaulting to the response that would result in the least pain. She couldn’t breathe - her body knew what came next, no matter what her rational self insisted -

Righ almost dropped her, eyes widening as she realized what she’d done, regret rushing through Chel’s empathy. Her gaze flickered from Chel to the smudges all down the window to the door, and she let go gently to give Chel time to get her feet under her.

It didn’t really work - Chel’s legs gave out almost immediately anyway - but it did let her choose which direction she fell, her back hitting the wall. She gasped for air, her hand going to her throat to check for bruises that didn’t exist, some part of her convinced that it hadn’t been her shirt that Righ had caught hold of.

She heard Righ back far enough away that she hit the table and cursed, but Chel didn’t look up, her fingers brushing against the kyber at her neck as she finished checking her throat. She gripped the crystal tightly, the thrum of the Force through her arm giving her an anchor, keeping her in the present instead of slipping into the safety of unconsciousness.

There was a long silence as Righ took her in, and Chel was grateful when she heard Righ pull out a chair to sit. When she finally managed to move her eyes, she wouldn’t have to look quite so far up.

“You are so fucked up,” said Righ, wonder and frustration in her voice. 

Chel coughed out a poor excuse for a laugh.

“I can’t believe they let you out of the Temple,” she added.

Chel nodded.

“You had no idea you might snap like that, did you?” asked Righ, her anger slowly becoming accompanied by pity.

There was something in Chel that thought she should dislike the pity, but she couldn’t summon any particular feeling out of the hollowness. Instead she fought to speak, swallowing hard.

“I should have guessed,” she whispered.

“Duelling was a fucking bad idea,” Righ agreed, her anger still simmering and making Chel cringe.

Righ sighed, and Chel heard the sound of the seat adjusting as the human leaned back.

“Carry and I decided not to tell my Master where he thought you’d be,” she said, “but if we know what happened, she does too, and she’s probably already looking. I just wanted to talk to you first.”

Chel shut her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath, drawing her knees in close. She’d successfully proved Moltayne right.

“It’s…” Righ sighed a second time. “I mean, it’s not _alright_ , but you didn’t do it on purpose. We’ll figure out a way to send you home, and there’s no way they’ll -”

Whatever Righ said, Chel didn’t hear it, the wave of nausea so strong that she put both hands over her mouth and recoiled, curling in on herself against the wall. There was no way she could go back, no way she could go into a place she associated with light and love filled with good people who _justified slavery_. Good people like her, who worked to protect the galaxy, who had still never thought it through, who had never even thought to ask.

“Chel?” came Righ’s voice, her name cutting through the haze.

Chel shook her head so hard she felt dizzy.

“Why don’t you - did something happen at the Temple?” asked Righ, alarm overriding her anger. 

This time when Chel shook her head it was slower, her breath ragged through her fingers.

“I don’t understand,” said Righ, frustration in her tone. “If nothing -”

Righ cut herself off, sensing Moltayne’s approach several seconds before Chel and making it to the door before the older woman opened it.

“Out,” commanded Moltayne, the word sharp and clipped. Her fury wasn’t the same as Righ’s - it the harsh anger of a person used to being in absolute control and determined to take that control back in the fastest way possible. 

It dimly occurred to Chel that it might be nice to be on the outside of the transparisteel window.

“No,” was Righ’s stubborn response.

There was a moment of startled silence as Moltayne processed the flat refusal, and Chel managed to look up and across the room at where Righ was standing with her arm across the door to prevent Moltayne from entering.

“Excuse me?” asked Moltayne, the words laced with danger.

“I can handle this,” said Righ. “It’s not like it was one of the men,” she continued after a pause, “and you can’t really reprimand her anyway.”

“I want her off my ship,” replied Moltayne, voice tight.

“I’ll figure it out,” insisted Righ. She glanced over her shoulder at Chel, briefly meeting her fearful eyes. “I’ll stay with her until -”

“You have other responsibilities,” challenged Moltayne. “If she can’t be left alone, you’ll have to assign -”

“I am _not_ leaving her alone with a man,” snapped Righ in the same moment Chel flinched at the idea. “You _know_ what happened.”

“The clones are harmless,” Moltayne dismissed, “and she’s going to have to learn -”

“That’s not your job!” snarled Righ. “That’s what the mind healers at the Temple are for!”

There was another pause as they regarded each other - Moltayne wasn’t used to being questioned, much less to Righ asserting herself.

“We’re dropping out of hyperspace in twelve hours,” said Moltayne. “You have until then.”

She turned before Righ had time to thank her, and Righ moved away to let the door shut. She stood there in silence for a long moment, staring at the door.

“Shit,” Righ muttered, stepping back to the edge of the table and leaning against it. “Shit,” she repeated.

Chel took the moment to gather herself as best she could, posture easing as she forced her breath open, loosening her grip on the kyber at her neck. She shuddered when she heard Righ move, but the other woman just slowly walked back to her chair, set her elbows on the table, and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted after a long silence, misery colouring the frustration.

“I’m sorry,” said Chel shakily, her breath already shortening as she realized the position Righ was in.

Righ waved the apology away, eyes kept shut. “I wasn’t going to leave you with _that_. It’s bad enough when she cares about you, I can’t imagine…” she trailed off, sitting away from the table and changing the subject. “Why don’t you want to go back to the Temple?”

Chel hesitated, her eyes going down to her knees.

“I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on,” Righ pointed out, doing her best to moderate her temper.

“It’s…” began Chel, struggling to find words. “They let it - I can’t...” she shook her head again, eyes away from Righ. “I can’t _own people_ ,” she spat, tremors of disgust running through her body and into her voice. “The Order _left me there_ ,” Chel took as deep a breath as her body would allow, startled by her own anger, “and I came back alone and the Republic owns slaves and the Order _let it happen_ and the clones - they’re _children_ \- some are _eight years old_ -” she was gasping as she fought to finish, already losing all the work she’d done to calm herself.

“You think the clones are slaves,” clarified Righ quietly. She wasn’t just unsurprised - she was melancholy.

“Made to serve,” Chel managed to choke out. “The Republic - the Order - are _slavers_. I can’t. I _can’t_.”

There was a long silence in which Chel waited with her body pressed against the wall away from Righ, waiting for the human to argue.

“I can’t say you’re wrong,” said Righ, her voice kept low.

Chel looked up in surprise to find Righ tapping one set of knuckles on the table, her brow furrowed.

“It’s not like I’ve never thought about it,” she continued, her voice even quieter, like she was afraid to say it out loud.

“How can you _stay?_ ” asked Chel in horror.

“How can I leave?” countered Righ, no longer frustrated but distraught. “How can I leave, knowing that if I’d stayed I could have saved even one of them?”

Righ hesitated, studying Chel, all her anger dissipated, replaced by both determination and despair. Just as Chel was starting to wonder if Righ expected her to say something, she chose to trust her, and spoke.

“They’re my brothers, Chel,” she confessed brokenly. “Even if I thought it would make a difference, I couldn’t leave them to die alone.”

When Chel had first realized how deeply she cared for Valentii, it had sparked years of philosophical discussion with her Master. The Jedi Code was a simple five lines to memorize, but a complicated thing to understand, with over a thousand years of contradictory precedents and complex, varied opinions even amongst the living masters. The doctrine of non-attachment was even worse, emotionally charged as it was - jealousy, ownership, love, responsibility, trust, martyrdom, sacrifice, and all their relationships with people and objects and ideas.

Chel had never been entirely sure where Dain had stood on any of it, and hadn’t come to any conclusions for herself. Based on Righ’s pleading expression and the fear and guilt she radiated, she’d been trying to navigate the question of her brothers alone.

There was no comfort Chel could give that came from the Order; the ideals of the Code hadn’t prepared either of them for what their lives had become.

Instead Chel offered Righ her hand, and after a moment of confusion, Righ moved away from her spot at the table to take it, letting Chel draw her down to the floor. She kept herself several centimetres away, likely afraid that any extra touch would set Chel off. Chel closed the distance, leaning her side against Righ’s and resting her head on Righ’s shoulder. After a pause, Righ rested her head against Chel’s.

It was a safe kind of touch, the only real skin contact the place where their fingers still brushed together, and in the silence, Chel felt some of the tension in Righ’s body start to release. Her own body started to relax at the same time, and Chel was suddenly aware of how much of her hurt, every part of her aching from sitting on the floor next to the cold transparisteel window, her limbs shaking from the effort of the duel and running across the ship away from Kit. Her head was pounding, eyes swollen and face stiff from crying.

“If I send you back,” said Righ quietly, finally breaking the silence, “you’re going to hurt yourself, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” replied Chel, her voice small. She sounded like a child.

There was a pause, and Chel waited for Righ to try to convince her to go back.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Righ asked instead.

Chel let out breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, relief washing over her.

“Chel?” asked Righ when she didn’t respond, voice unsure. “I can’t just throw you out into the void…”

“I do,” replied Chel, thinking of Valentii. 

He’d have gotten down on the floor with her first thing. Offered her a drink. Made her laugh. She’d be feeling warm, thoughts fuzzy, the sharp edges of her panicked vigilance ground down, distracted by the sheer mundanity of everything he said.

“Think you can get there on your own?” asked Righ. 

Chel nodded, and Righ sighed deeply, gently dislodging Chel from her shoulder and standing.

“I’ll see what I can do to get you headed out.”


	14. Lively Decay

Rini, Abby, Talia, and Sana. 

When Chel had escaped, it had been with fire at her heels, the taste of freedom one of blood and ash and death. Her Master hadn’t even pretended that she would make it out, and had taken Chel’s request to heart - if there was nothing that either of them could do for any of the other slaves, the entire slaver’s palace needed to burn.

Better to be dead than in hell.

Rini, Abby, Talia, and Sana. The names of the only four women Chel had managed to bring with her. Of the millions of slaves on the routes she and Dain had been concerned with, of the thousands Chel had heard about from inside locked rooms and cages, of the hundreds that she’d seen, of the tens she’d spoken to, she had saved _four_.

Wherever they were, whatever the Order had done with them, Chel hoped their freedom didn’t taste the way hers did now as she walked a step behind Righ through a ship crewed by slaves. That their freedom didn’t taste like bitterness and betrayal and futility.

Chel’s eyes stayed on the floor the entire way to Righ’s room, unable to acknowledge the white boots of the clones they passed, unable to summon any feeling other than guilt and exhaustion. Like the bright lights of the Temple, the grey halls of the _Venture_ all merged into one, and Chel let herself travel the way she had there, fingers trailing across the wall so that she knew she still existed in a place that was real.

“Chel?” came Righ’s worried voice.

They’d stopped walking, and Chel’s eyes refocused on her fingers on the wall, wandering up to where Righ was watching her, standing in front of the open door to her quarters.

“We’re here,” said Righ, nodding at the door.

“Right,” murmured Chel, glancing through the doorway and into Righ’s quarters.

Some part of Chel had expected Righ’s quarters on the ship to be the same small, single room that hers had been, despite the fact that Righ usually lived on the ship almost full time. Instead it was just large enough to contain both a bed and a desk, the walls adorned with blueprints of speeders and a poster from a popular action vid. The bed was neatly made with an extra blanket on top, the desk organized with a battered model of a Y-Wing tucked into the corner where the desk met the walls.

“I’ve got my own ‘fresher,” said Righ as she led the way inside. “It’s got a shower and everything, if you want.”

Chel nodded, suddenly intensely aware of the fact that the filthiness she felt wasn’t just internal, her clothing covered in sweat. 

“Sorry it’s just a sonic,” continued Righ, stepping through the narrow door at the back of the room and beginning to tidy without looking back. “You know how ships are.”

Instead of following her, Chel sat herself on the end of the bed to get rid of the pain that came from standing, listening to Righ talk about something or other to do with which soap to use and how the dials were different from those on the older Venators. Chel stared at the rest of the bed - when they’d been Initiates, neither of them had ever made a bed without an adult standing over them. Only one of them had grown out of that. 

Slowly, without any real thought, Chel moved far enough forward onto the bed that when she collapsed facing the wall it was only her feet that hung over the edge.

When she woke the lights were dimmed, and it took her several seconds to parse where she was, recognizing Righ’s presence just before her thoughts could spin off into the creeping dread of waking up alone with a stranger. She let out a small sigh of relief, and heard Righ turn in her chair.

“Feeling better?” Righ asked.

Chel checked the crystal at her neck and did a swift mental inventory of her weapons before pushing herself up and nodding. She stood before Righ could say anything else, stepping into the ‘fresher and shutting the door so that she could be alone.

The ‘fresher was so tiny that there was barely space to undress, a mirror in front of her and the door to Righ’s room at her back. Chel stood in the centre for a long moment, staring into the sink, trying to decide which was worse: facing the mirror and seeing herself, or facing the locked door and feeling exposed.

She chose the mirror, forced to catch glimpses of her own body, far more muscular than it had been in captivity, finally starting to resemble what she remembered of herself. Her uneven hair stuck to the side of her face from sleeping, the wrapping on her wrist was already starting to darken along the edges, and the circles under her eyes were so dark that they looked bruised. 

The shower in Chel’s quarters in the Temple had been water - likely a situation engineered by the mind healer, who was under the impression that there was something inherently comforting about a hot shower. Chel hadn’t been able to bring herself to point out that the aftermath of a hot shower for someone with hair that had been as long as hers was always cold and damp, nor had she been able to admit that there had been nowhere safe in her year away.

After months of wet hair and unpleasant memories of violence and tile, the sonic was a relief, the claustrophobia of the small space mitigated by the clinical safety of the brushed plasteel grates, the dry, room temperature vibrations thrumming in her bones.

It was distracting enough that the nearness of a clone didn’t fully register until she’d turned the sonic off. She waited where she was, focusing in the Force on the clone’s presence. He was a stranger that felt of the steady, stolid reliability of a medic - it only made sense for Righ to be asking for a medic’s opinion, as much as Chel resented it.

Chel rested her forehead against the wall and stared down at the dials, straining her empathy through the walls, exerting a skill she’d been desperate for in slavery - it always helped to know the mood of anyone approaching so as to prepare herself. The muddled emotions made it clear that Righ was desperate for some kind of guidance, and that the clone was at a loss.

As far as she could tell, Chel was the only non-human on the ship, and in her experience humans had a bad habit of missing any extra redness from irritation on her skin. She turned the sonic back on to a volume meant to rinse clothes, breathing hard and pressing her eyes shut with her sprained wrist cradled to her chest as the sonic painfully stripped her skin deeper than was healthy.

She didn’t feel much cleaner when it was done, but it successfully destroyed her ability to think at length about the theoretical contents of their conversation.

Her clothes came next, her belt and the contents of her pockets removed and the clothes themselves hung in the sonic for a brief cycle. Chel sat curled on the floor with her knees drawn up to her chest, skin tingling from the harsh treatment, eyes on the things she’d laid out in a line before her. Blasters. Saber. Knives. Her lucky dice. The assignment chip she’d never use.

It would have been far easier to wait out the sonic cycle for her clothes with Tracy’s flask open, but Righ’s conversation with the medic was heavy on her mind, and she chose to suffer instead of risk being sent back to the Temple.

Chel curled in on herself further, hiding as much of herself from the air as possible as the gravity of her decision began to truly set in. She’d spent far more time away from the Temple than in it ever since being apprenticed to Dain, but it had always been there, a solid rock that tied her to the Order, to something more than herself. Now she was left unmoored, the rock of her world crumbling in her hands, set adrift in a galaxy that no longer made sense.

She didn’t hear the sonic when it slowed into silence, staying where she was on the floor without thought, losing track of time as her thoughts drifted. Feeling hollow didn’t mean feeling safe, but it did keep her from caring.

It wasn’t until Righ knocked on the door and quietly called her name that Chel moved.

“Are you alright?” Righ asked through the door.

“Fine,” muttered Chel. She shifted her legs - they’d gone stiff from the position - and cleared her throat. “Fine,” she repeated, her voice loud enough to register through the door.

“I had someone bring us food,” offered Righ. “It’s still hot.”

“Okay,” replied Chel, shuddering as cold air hit the parts of her body that had been curled in. “I’ll just - I’ll be out in a minute,” she said, doing her best to keep the unexpected tremor out of her voice. 

This was by far the longest she’d been naked since the initial medical exams, and once her awareness was brought back to the present, she felt _disgusting_. Her desperation to be clothed led to her knocking her right knuckles against the sink, wincing as the feeling ran through her sprained wrist and then snorting a laugh as she remembered the night she’d cut her hair while drunk.

With her weapons back where they belonged, Chel paused to let her forehead rest against the door, taking a deep breath before opening it and stepping through.

Righ was still sitting at her desk, a half finished plate of food in front of her and an untouched one to the side. She gave Chel a half hearted smile; the sleep and the shower brought Chel close enough to personhood to make a half hearted attempt to smile back.

“Did the shower help?” asked Righ as Chel sat herself down on the bed.

“Some,” replied Chel, accepting the plate that Righ offered and looking down at the food - part of her was starving, but most of her never wanted to eat again.

“I’ve got a clone rigging up a fighter with manual coordinates for you,” said Righ as Chel did her best to start eating. “That way there’s no records of your flight pattern for anyone to follow.”

“Thank you,” replied Chel quietly between bites, her eyes kept on her food.

“I know you don’t like flying fighters,” said Righ apologetically, “but they’re the easiest to spare. And I’d have asked which planet you wanted to head towards, but there’s really only one within your range where a Republic fighter can get through the atmosphere without being shot down.”

Chel nodded; where she went hardly mattered, and she didn’t even have to land the fighter properly given that she never intended to use it again.

There was a long silence before Righ spoke, her hesitation drawn out at length to match the anxiety and fear she radiated.

“Gurney said that if you might kill yourself,” she said quietly, “I should at least let you choose where to do it.”

Chel’s movements slowed to a stop, and she forced herself to look up. Righ was _exhausted_ \- unlike Chel, she likely hadn’t slept since long before their duel, and it was making her assume the worst.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” said Righ, her voice small.

“You don’t have to,” replied Chel. She set the last of her food aside, the plate carefully balanced on the bed next to her. “I’m going to be fine.”

“You seemed fine before,” Righ pointed out.

“No more duels,” said Chel. She managed a wry smile - even a small amount of food had her feeling better.

Righ laughed weakly, some of the tension in her shoulders letting go in time with the concern in her emotions ever so slightly easing.

"Gurney told me to ask if you have somewhere safe to go," said Righ after a deep breath.

"I... do, actually," replied Chel, her eyes on her plate as she thought of the scratched blue sections of paint on the _Waterdog's_ hull and the warm browns of the crew's lounge table booth. She was almost looking forward to Valentii's conflicted hovering - she was fairly certain he'd never once in his entire life questioned whether their friendship should be as close as it was.

The thought that soon she wouldn't have to question it either was too large to handle, and she shoved it away.

"There are fewer safe places for Jedi than there used to be," Righ reminded her. “The war has long arms.”

Chel looked up at the word _Jedi_ , and there was a long silence before Righ spoke again.

"Although I suppose that's..." she trailed off, unsure of whether to acknowledge Chel's soon to be ex-Jedi status.

"I know what you mean," Chel offered. “I know how to blend in.”

“Right,” said Righ. “All that espionage.”

“Sometimes,” confirmed Chel, “but sometimes not dressing like a Jedi is just about making people comfortable. Jedi robes have a tendency to make people nervous, and...” Chel sighed. “Lightsabers make them afraid.”

“Why?” asked Righ with a frown. “If it’s Sep space, maybe, but in the Republic having a lightsaber means you’re a Jedi. We’re still heroes there.”

Chel’s eyes went down as Righ said the words. The other woman lived with her clone brothers on military ships or with other Jedi in the Temple, and had no reason to leave either place. She didn’t have someone like Valentii to give an unfiltered view of the rest of the galaxy, much less access to Dain’s network of friends and informants. She might not even have watched the holos of Barriss.

“Chel?” asked Righ, the worry back in her voice and skittering through Chel’s empathy.

“A sword is still a sword,” replied Chel, borrowing Dain’s words in order to lean on philosophy instead of politics. “I don’t blame anyone who sees a weapon and not a symbol.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” said Righ with a small, sad smile. “Given times like these.”

“Times like these,” muttered Chel - she didn’t have the energy to clarify that the fear was nothing new, and so picked her plate up off the bed next to her to continue eating, eyes down.

Righ didn’t press, shifting conversation to the planet she’d chosen for Chel to travel to, taking a datapad off her desk and projecting a holo. 

The planet wasn't a desert world, nor was it a swamp one: it was an unpleasant combination of the two, its wilderness composed of primarily wet silt and sand. What plant life existed clung to life in the shallows, thin bluffs of desperately ill bracken and trees. It was easy enough to imagine the colour of the place through the blue of the holo - grey on grey with a side of dull brown.

Whatever resources it had were considered irrelevant to the Separatists and too difficult to gather by the Republic, the planet’s people largely either rural or nomadic. The single major city was a ramshackle collection of buildings attached to the only spaceport the planet’s economy could support.

It was perfect; there wasn’t even any flight control.

Walking through the halls of the _Venture_ behind Righ on the way to the hangar was both easier and harder than walking to Righ’s room had been. The grey halls were easier to distinguish and her fingers didn’t need to touch a wall to keep her awareness in place, but that awareness made it easy to feel every flash of anger or discomfort or confusion emanating from every clone they passed.

She kept her eyes down. Their boots were far easier to look at than their faces.

Once in the hangar Righ led her to the fighter she’d organized for her - an A-Wing, a fighter model she knew the name of by virtue of Valentii’s interest in racing. It was a shame there wasn’t any way for her to take it to him, if it was being removed from the GAR anyway.

“That’s a custom paint job,” said Righ from behind her. When Chel turned, Righ was half smiling, but her emotions were in turmoil. “So don’t crash it.”

Chel didn’t smile back.

“Promise you won’t fly unless you have to,” she said, ignoring the way Righ went tense. She wasn’t quite willing to let Righ’s brain injury pass without comment. “And I’ll do my best to land it soft.”

Righ cleared her throat before nodding stiff agreement.

There was a moment of silence as they both tried to decide how to say goodbye. Righ offered a hand. Chel stepped forward and pulled her in, holding her tight, taking a shuddering breath as Righ held her in kind.

When they parted there was no hesitation - Righ stepped back out of the A-Wing’s initial range of motion, and Chel took the ladder to the cockpit, not looking back until she was sitting in the pilot’s seat. Righ waved. Chel tried to smile. The clone finished his preflight checks. She was cleared for takeoff.

She’d always been better at takeoffs than landings.

It was easy - for easier than she thought it would be - to exit the hangar and engage the autopilot, leaving the _Venture_ behind - leaving Righ, the clones, the war, the Temple, her home, her entire life - behind.

Hours later the fighter broke the atmosphere at the end of her programmed coordinates and a warning beeped to indicate that the autopilot was about to disengage. Chel hesitantly reached out to take the controls, looking out at the surface of the planet below the ship. 

The holo might have made it look inhospitable, but the truth was more complex - the sky was cloudless, a bright and healthy blue, the bracken that had looked ill coated in rich green. The muddy ground was grey-on-grey, but the slow moving currents of its waterways were easy to see from above. Everything about the planet hummed with life in the Force, the smell of lively decay making its way into the cockpit as Chel directed the fighter as close to the ground as she dared.

Chel obeyed the instructions blinking on the dashboard in front of her, and the city marked on the map began to rise on the horizon, the glow of the blue-purple antigrav holding its buildings above the silt rippling across Chel's vision. It wasn't long before she found a road lifted out of the sand to provide something solid for the less specialized antigrav of speeders to rise against, and Chel scanned the surface for the nearest bluff.

Her skills with a fighter weren't just poor but also out of practice, and so her landing was rough, overshooting the bluff and scraping bracken on significantly more than just the landing gear. The fighter rattled through the top layer of water and silt before catching on the sand beneath at the tip of one wing, spinning the fighter, leaving Chel dizzy and assaulted by dashboard warnings when it finally came to a stop.

Powering down the fighter's main systems silenced the warnings all at once, and she sighed out relief before opening the cockpit and breathing in life. She shut her eyes and opened herself to the Force, feeling the sand, feeling the plants, feeling the creatures down below, the sound of insects buzzing across the surface filling her ears, the warmth of the planet's star on her face, salt filled humidity in her mouth.

After several long minutes she opened her eyes, collecting her bag over her shoulder and pushing herself up and out of the cockpit. She let the Force guide her down to the nearest stable ground, sinking through the silt halfway to her knees. 

The fighter behind her creaked, and she half turned to watch it wallow in the waterlogged sand as it slowly dragged it into the ground. When the cockpit began to fill with brown-grey muck, Chel swallowed; another layer of distance between her and going back to the place that was once her home. 

Her home, warm and filled with light, clean, stately, kept apart from the galaxy to do the work of the light side of the Force, so disconnected from ordinary people that slavery could be justified.

Slowly Chel let herself collapse into the mud, first to her knees, then deeper, heedless of her bag dipping into the silt as she leaned forward to push her palms through the sand. Real dirt under the real sun of a real planet, messy and ugly and cool between her fingers.

Without standing Chel retrieved the datachip from her filthy pocket and stared at it. Abandoning it would be to abandon her place in the war, and would be the single most selfish decision in her entire life. It wasn't as though the information stopped being important just because it came from the Jedi.

She pushed herself up against the suck of the sand, tossed the datachip into the silt near the ship, and began to make her way toward the road, pulling out her flask as she went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all those chapters posted on "it's technically still Sunday don't @ me", we have the final two together at once _a day early_. Go me!


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember waaaaaaaaaaay back in the very first author's note when I mentioned there was a moment of intense suicidal ideation? Yeah, that's here.
> 
> Also, it seemed unfair to make those of you looking forward to two final _chapters_ wait an entire extra week only to find out that the last chapter was actually an _epilogue_ so have them both at once! It feels kind of appropriate to finish this fic off the day after we got the first new episode of TCW. :)

Days passed, and then weeks, and then, suddenly, it was a month since she’d left the _Venture_.

During that time Chel wandered, aimlessly drifting from place to place, using the Force to cheat at dice games to pay for off-the-books rides on freighters without even bothering to ask where the ships were going.

Most mornings she woke bleary eyed and in pain. In that way, this morning was the same as always, consciousness slowly crawling out of the mire that was her blackout.

Her eyes blinked open, the world blurry - and a scream ripped out of her throat as the _emptiness_ of the Force slammed into her. She held her head and curled in on herself, eyes squeezed shut, the first scream followed by another.

It was cold, so cold, and empty, silent, _silent_ , every voice that used to softly sing in the Force snuffed out, like losing Dain, like losing her _again_ , over and over and over alone in the dark. The Force was torn open, a hole in her head, a gaping wound in her thoughts where the Force was _meant_ to be - she’d passed out the night before with it intact - it was still there - different, cold, empty, silent, _dark_ \- 

Everyone was dead. _The Jedi were dead_.

Chel managed to lean over the edge of the bed before she threw up.

For several seconds Chel stared down, paralyzed as her awareness of herself and the space around her caught up. Slowly the world came into focus, her mind recalibrating to cope with the shift in the Force that had happened while she was passed out - 

_Everyone was dead_ , Dain, Righ, Hayda, Kishlee, Ashlyn, Barriss, Jerav, Bondett, all their masters, all the healers, Koon, Windu, Skywalker, all the younglings - this, after everything else - this was what she'd survived for - she was _alone_ \- 

Chel pawed at the bedside table for her blaster, her fingers scrabbling against the edges, managing to catch hold of the handle. She began to pick it up, but her hands were shaking wildly, and she dropped it in the mess on the floor.

She went for her saber instead, and at this she succeeded, rolling over onto her other side on the bed, clutching the hilt clumsily to her chest, trying desperately to aim the emitter somewhere against her neck or chin.

Once she almost had it in place, the hilt tapped against the kyber crystal tied around her neck. It thrummed discordantly with the crystal in her saber, and she hesitated, gasping for air like she was drowning.

Dain. Dain had given her that crystal. Dain had died for her. Dain had saved her from the depths of hell. Dain had given her a kyber crystal, and Chel still hadn’t solved the riddle as to why.

Chel threw her saber away from herself as hard as she could, the sound of metal hitting the wall lost beneath her sobs.

Slowly, slowly, her crying quieted into nothing, and she lost track of time, staring at her hands, awake but not awake. Drifting empty thoughts in a haze of miserable despair.

Her body felt weak when she finally tried to move. Chel was dimly surprised that she even could - she wasn’t still in slavery, she wasn’t still drugged into oblivion, things were different now. 

It was her comm she went for, before anything else. The one she’d been given by the Order, the one she’d shut off and ignored but still kept on her belt. The last message was five hours old, a warning sent by Master Kenobi while she was passed out, an alteration of the emergency home call. 

Chel only registered parts of it. The Order has fallen. Avoid Coruscant. Trust the Force.

She watched it several times over, but didn’t take in any more, and eventually once again took to staring at her hands and drifting, sliding into the place where it didn't matter if she hurt. 

A thought came to her somewhere during the silently passing hours, the quiet realization that Dain had made sure she had someone who mattered to her who wasn’t a Jedi, and knowing that she wasn't entirely alone eventually pushed her into slow, pained action.

Chel stood unsteadily, leaning against the bed for stability and rescuing the bottle she’d fallen asleep with from underneath it, pulling from it as she dug through her small bag to find her holorecorder. She set the recorder on the edge of the bed, and slowly slid down with her back against the wall to sitting, her saber at her side.

It was a long while before she worked up the nerve to hit the start button. Once it was on, speaking was still hard, even _looking_ at it was a trial - but Valentii needed to know she was alive.

Finally she let herself sip from her bottle while the holo was running, and she managed to find her voice.

“So… they’re all…” Chel trailed off and cleared her throat, eyes still on the floor. “So I’m sure you’ve heard…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I never have to read through this story again. Given that the first google doc for this was created on January 9, 2018 (and that it was started in a random document somewhere else before that), that's a pretty weird feeling.
> 
> There's a sequel - a whole series of short stories, in fact - but given how slow I write it might be a while before these characters show up again. :')


End file.
